


To Dream of the Promised Land

by MelindaYoung



Category: Sliders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen, Hatred, Past Sexual Assault, Period-Typical Racism, Racist Language, Season/Series 02, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-08-01
Updated: 1998-08-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 98,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22155526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelindaYoung/pseuds/MelindaYoung
Summary: During a months-long stay on an Earth where the American Civil War never happened and as a result America languished as a backwater nation, Rembrandt is abducted and forced into slavery. While Quinn, Wade, and Arturo try to move heaven and earth to get him freed, Rembrandt’s quiet refusal to submit to the injustices of servitude causes ripples on the inside. As the stagnated society responds to the Sliders’ efforts and the dangers escalate for all involved, Arturo falls for the attorney they have hired to free Rembrandt, and the others worry about the decision he’ll face when it’s time to leave.
Relationships: Maximillian Arturo/Original Female Character(s), Quinn Mallory/Wade Welles
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the rights to the characters and scenarios from the Sliders television series. No financial benefit has been derived from the creation of this fan fiction, not even a free drink at a con. I am immensely grateful to the original owners, developers, and creative partners of the Sliders universe for their artistry and vision.
> 
> Brief excerpts of the lyrics from the song “I Heard It Through the Grapevine" written by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong are used in this story without permission.
> 
> Dedicated to the memory of a joyous, undiluted force of nature and my dear friend, Betty Jean Jones
> 
> This story takes place between “Gillian of the Spirits” and “Post Traumatic Slide Syndrome”
> 
> This story has not been authorized to be made available through third-party apps, especially fee-based apps. If you are reading this through an app, it has been copied illegally. Please report this copyright violation to the author on the Archive of Our Own website: archiveofourown.org/works/22155526
> 
> Original Elements Copyright (c) Melinda Young 2020.

It was a sunny late December afternoon when they arrived, and one glance at the small city around them showed this wasn’t home. Rembrandt frowned at the meager prospects. “Well, this sure ain’t much to look at. How much time we got here, Q-Ball?”

Quinn frowned at the timer as he did a quick mental calculation. “Wow. I hope we like it here, because we’ve got eight weeks and two days.”

No one liked the sound of that, and Wade looked at the timer to see for herself. Everyone gazed unhappily at the city around them. “Two months,” Wade sighed.

Rembrandt remarked, “I don’t think we’ve seen a San Francisco this small where there actually was a city.”

Quinn commented, “There was that anti-technology Earth where I was stuck in the astral plane.”

This city wasn’t as large as the one on that Earth, and its technology looked none too promising. There were a few sturdy, clunky cars, telephone poles, television antennas, and other emblems of modest progress, but everything was thinner, simpler, more...precarious. Wade thought—but didn’t say aloud—that this place looked almost Third World.

“Yes, well, it does look a bit more primitive than what we’re used to,” Arturo said as he started down the street in search of a newspaper machine. “We’d better learn how to blend in if we’re going to survive for two months.”

“Well,” Quinn smirked, “first we probably shouldn’t rip apart the entire social fabric like we did the last time we stuck around for a while.” They all began to smile at Arturo.

He harrumphed. “That particular social fabric was in serious need of unraveling. I make no apologies for starting the male equality movement.”

Wade patted his arm with a chuckle. “Okay, but try to control yourself here, will you? Don’t start any revolutions you’re not going to be around to finish.” He arched an eyebrow at her, and she laughed.

They continued down the quiet street. This neighborhood was mixed commercial and residential, and the few passersby on the street looked at them with muted curiosity but little friendliness. Wade couldn’t get the idea out of her head that this was the Third World.

They reached a large cross street, and Arturo grumbled as he looked at the sidewalk corners around him. He was looking for a newspaper vending machine, but there was none to be seen. “I wonder where you can buy a newspaper around here?”

“We’ll have to find a drug store or something, I guess,” Quinn answered.

They kept walking down the quiet street, noticing the tired, sad quality of the neighborhood. If this area had ever seen good times, they were a long time gone. Every third storefront was vacant, and some were gutted. It was definitely not the better part of town...if this San Francisco had a better part. A hardware store, a rundown restaurant, a row of derelict buildings, but nothing resembling a store where they could buy a paper. They kept walking.

After he saw the fourth placard in a window he passed, Rembrandt had to speak up. “Did you see the sign in the window back there?” he said as they crossed a quiet street. “It said ‘Colored.’”

“Maybe it’s some sort of advertising,” Wade shrugged.

Rembrandt shook his head. “You’re too young to remember. Hotels and restaurants being labeled ‘For Coloreds’ and ‘Whites Only.’ Even drinking fountains, like being black was some terrible contagious disease.” He rankled at the memory. “There’s nothing like being a second-class citizen in your own country.”

Quinn stiffened as he walked. “I’m glad I’m too young to remember that.”

They paused outside a small bar with a ‘Colored” sign in the window. There wasn’t a single white patron in the place. They walked away solemnly. Arturo said simply, “It looks as though you’ll have a chance to experience it here, whether you like it or not.”

Wade added glumly, “For two months.”

“And two days,” Rembrandt echoed with a sigh.

They continued down the street until they found a busy and prosperous restaurant on the street corner. It looked like a perfect place to have lunch and settle down for a strategy session. Rembrandt was halfway through the door before he caught himself and stepped back outside to check for a “Colored” sign, which he saw below the menu in the window. He shook his head and muttered, “Man, this is going to be tough.”

As they waited to be seated, Arturo watched money changing hands at the register and saw that at least some of it looked familiar, so they would probably be able to pay for their meal; Quinn and Rembrandt both surveilled the patrons, noticing that while the diners were mostly black, there were enough whites scattered around that their group could blend in well enough; and Wade sized up the mood of the people in the restaurant, noticing it was calm, relaxed, just another weekday lunch. Arturo spotted a newspaper rack by the door and quickly got a paper as they were being shown to their corner booth.

They ordered—the food was standard American diner fare—and then each took a section of the paper to get a sense of the place. The most obvious differences from home were found in the advertisements. Fashions were modest, even a little boring. And prices were very low compared with what they knew, especially the food. But the most unsettling difference was the lower level of technology. Stereo turntables were being loudly trumpeted in one ad, and another ad promoted the latest in photography—a single lens reflex camera. There were very few automobile ads, televisions were fairly expensive compared with other items, and there were no computer store ads or airlines offering cheap excursions to anywhere.

Arturo folded his section of the paper back to the front page headlines as he said, “To give it a quick and dirty assessment, ‘Think 1940s.’” Quinn and Rembrandt nodded.

Wade gasped, loudly enough to attract the attention of the people in the next booth. She stared at the page before her in shock, then stammered in a loud whisper, “Oh my God!” The others looked at her with concern as she paled.

“What is it?” Quinn asked.

She glanced up at Arturo solemnly. “What did you say just now?”

“I said, ‘Think the 1940s.’”

She folded over the pages of the newspaper section to hold up for them to see. She whispered hoarsely, “More like 1840s.” The full-page advertisement had the blaring headline: “Slave Auction This Saturday!”

After a stunned silence, Rembrandt snatched the paper section from her hands and read the ad quickly. The others didn’t need to read the ad’s details—they could read his face well enough: Disbelief, shock, disgust, dismay. If he’d had food in his stomach, he might have vomited. He stood unsteadily. “I’ll be right back.” He headed out the front door. Quinn quickly followed him, and the others watched him sit on a bench by the front door. Quinn joined him on the bench, and Wade and Arturo could only look at each other helplessly.

Quinn came back a minute later and solemnly resumed his seat. “He just needs to be by himself for a few minutes. ...He’ll be okay.”

“Yeah, right,” Wade scoffed, “‘okay.’”

“Miss Welles, as tempting as sarcasm is at this moment, it’s not very useful,” Arturo stated. “Emotion and reaction aren’t going to help us. Knowledge is our only way to survive this Earth. We have to learn everything we can about this place so we can learn how to live with this...nightmare.” He softened, then looked out at Rembrandt, who was sitting on the bench with his head down. “My Dear Lord,” Arturo said as he shook his head slightly. “I can’t even begin to understand how he feels.” They watched as Rembrandt stood, took in a deep breath, and then came back into the restaurant.

He took his seat next to Arturo with an apology. “Sorry about that. It just kind of was...a surprise, you know?”

The others nodded in agreement, and the moment was eased further when the energetic young black waitress brought their food. She eyed Rembrandt as she placed his plate before him. “What’s the matter, sugar? You look like your dog just died.”

He looked up at her sadly, then frowned as he thought of something. He asked quietly, “Are you free or slave?”

She spoke without emotion. “Slave.”

He shuddered, then stared at his food. How could he eat this? How could he sit in this place? How could he stand to be on this Earth for _two whole months?_ He began to take in short, harsh breaths. Arturo put a calming hand on his shoulder, but it did little to help.

The waitress squinted at him. “Where are you from, boy? You’re not from Canada, are you? You don’t sound Canadian.” All he could do was shake his head. “Oh, are you from Washington? Or Minnesota or Wisconsin? One of _those_ states?” He shook his head. She leaned in to him confidentially. “Honey, you better settle down. You’re not going to last very long here if you keep this up.” She patted him on the shoulder and went back to her work.

Rembrandt thought hard for a long moment, then gathered himself and looked at his friends. “Don’t worry, I’m all right. I’ll be fine.” Wade reached across the table to pat his hand, and he took it and squeezed it gratefully. “Man, oh man, this is unbelievable.” Something over Wade’s shoulder caught his eye, and he noticed someone in the next booth looking at their held hands with some surprise. Without thinking, Rembrandt let her go and pulled his hands back safely to either side of his plate. “This is crazy.”

Arturo had seen the reaction of the people in the next booth as well, and, as he picked up his knife and fork with deliberate calmness, he said, “Then we’ll have to stay very sane.” He began to slice his food, and, after gearing up and gathering himself with a sigh, Rembrandt picked up his hamburger and forced himself to take a bite.

The meal was good and filling, and the price remarkably low—of course it was, since most of the help wouldn’t be paid—and when it was over, they gathered up the newspaper and headed out onto the street. Rembrandt stayed behind for a minute to chat with their waitress, and when he joined the others on the sidewalk, Wade asked him what he’d said to her. “Nothing. I was just asking her a few questions about how to get along here.” He put his hands in his jacket pockets with a grim resolve. “Like where I can go, and where I can’t, and what I can do, and can’t do.”

Wade smiled sadly and slipped her arm through his elbow as the four began to walk down the street. “Well, now’s not the time for me to start worrying about convention.”

He smiled a bit, then said wistfully, “Yeah, it is. More than ever.” With regret, he gently unwrapped her hand from his arm as they walked. “I remember the old folks told me when I was a kid, ‘You watch out now, you don’t get too fresh with those white women. We don’t want to have to come lookin’ for you in the mornin’.’”

Wade was puzzled. “Come looking for you...what, because you didn’t come home after a hot date?”

“No. You didn’t come home because you’d been lynched.”

She caught her breath.

He continued, “It didn’t happen so much during my lifetime. But the oldest son of the family next door when my mom was growing up got taken away one night. They found him in the morning.” He looked down thoughtfully as he walked. “I don’t want to be found like that.” Wade knew there was more to the story than he was sharing, but she didn’t feel comfortable asking. They walked on in silence.

Arturo finally said, “Our top priorities right now should be finding a place to stay for the night and then doing a great deal of research about this Earth so we can live here safely—together.”

Quinn added, “And if we’re going to be here for two months, we better try to find jobs.”

They traveled through the neighborhood until they came to a major thoroughfare. On the other side of the artery was a more upscale neighborhood of tidy shops and what looked like a couple of hotels. With a glance at the downtrodden poverty behind them, they crossed the street at the turn of the light and entered the white world.

Half a block down they found an old friend—the Dominion Hotel. A familiar landmark was welcome indeed, and the four headed for the open front lobby. Rembrandt hesitated, then stopped. “Ah, I’ll meet you inside.”

The others stopped and looked at him quizzically. Wade asked, “What is it?”

“I have to go around the back.”

Wade frowned her question to him, and he nodded slightly towards a sign on the side of the building: “Colored Entrance,” with an arrow pointing down the narrow alley to the back of the hotel. Quinn scowled, then looked at the open lobby area. The front desk was no more than twenty-five feet away from the door. “Come on, Rembrandt, no one’s going to notice.”

Rembrandt looked solemnly at the clerk at the front desk, who was watching them idly. He looked at Quinn again. “I can’t go through that door. I’ll meet you inside.” He headed down the alley.

Wade put her hands on her hips and blew out an annoyed sigh, but there was nothing to be done, so they went in through the front door to the desk. The clerk nodded. “Good afternoon. How are you folks today?”

“Fine, thank you,” Arturo replied. “We’d like Suite 301, please, if it’s available. If not, 401. And we’ll be staying roughly a week.”

The clerk’s brow furrowed, then he got the registration book. “Will you all be staying together?”

Arturo replied, “Yes. Is that a problem?”

“...Well, I’m sorry, sir, but no negroes are allowed in the front-facing rooms or corridors. If you still want to be in one suite, 628 is available. Is that acceptable?” It was not at all acceptable, but under the circumstances no one objected. The clerk nodded and picked up a pen. “Names, please.”

Arturo answered for the three of them, then Wade added, “And Rembrandt Brown.”

The clerk nodded as he finished writing Arturo’s name. “That’s your slave’s name?”

Wade shuddered, then said in a small voice, “Yeah.”

The clerk nodded as he wrote, and Wade fought a wave of nausea at what she’d just done. She hoped Rembrandt would forgive her. The clerk finished writing and asked Arturo, “Luggage?”

“Ah, no, not this trip.”

The clerk rang the bell, then said, “I’ll send your man up to your room.”

None of the three understood. Quinn said, “Send him up?”

“Well, of course, he has to go up the back elevator.” The clerk eyed their consternation with growing impatience.

Arturo read his reaction and said quickly, “Forgive us. As you’ve undoubtedly guessed, we’re new here. ...Our apologies.”

The white bellboy arrived and the clerk handed him the key. As the three left, he called after them, “Enjoy your stay.”

The rooms were comfortable, if not as nice as other Dominion Hotels they’d known—and probably not as nice as the “Whites Only” suites in the front of the hotel. But once they were all together again, they decided on a game plan for the next day: Quinn, Wade, and Arturo would do research out in the city, and Rembrandt would stay in the room and check out the local TV and radio broadcasts. He objected, but the others argued that until they had a sense of this place, he would need to stay safely out of the reach of this society. He grudgingly agreed.

The next morning, after a room service breakfast—the Dominion’s restaurant didn’t seat black patrons—the four pursued their research assignments. Quinn and Wade went to the main public library, Arturo visited the university, and Rembrandt was left trapped in the room with the television as his only window to the larger world.

The four rendezvoused back at the hotel for dinner to compare notes. Wade began. “This is terrible. From what Quinn and I could find out, there was no Civil War here. Abraham Lincoln never existed, and in his place in history was a man named John Pennefield. To us, Lincoln was ‘The Great Emancipator,’ but here Pennefield was ‘The Great Reconciliator.’ He found a way to bring the North and South together so basically everyone would mind their own business and not interfere with what the other states were doing.” Wade reached into her pocket and produced a local penny. “He’s the guy on the penny. ‘Penny—‘Penny-field.’ They couldn’t resist.”

Quinn continued, “There is a federal government, but as near as we can tell, it doesn’t have much power. It can’t force the states to do anything. States even print their own money, which is just as legal as the national money.”

Arturo nodded thoughtfully. “According to the history books I looked through, by the late 19th Century the United States was an embarrassment to the other Western nations, and it was left behind socially and technologically as no one wanted to have anything to do with a country that had legalized slavery. That in turn hampered the U.S.’s industrial growth, which means this United States never became a world power. The rest of the world suffered tremendously as a result. As the U.S. wasn’t a major industrial power, World War II lasted nearly _twenty_ years. Europe and most of Asia were devastated. The Allies eventually won, but only because when both Britain and Nazi Germany came up with nuclear weapons at the same time, in 1958, British saboteurs destroyed the German factory while the RAF dropped the Bomb on every German city with more than 100,000 people. Whole regions in Europe are still uninhabitable. It was even worse in Asia. Japan virtually doesn’t exist. Do you recall the line about ‘bombing people back to the Stone Age’? That’s nearly happened on parts of this Earth.”

Rembrandt nodded. “Who knew we were so special, huh?” Wade patted his hand. “Well, television was pretty wild. It’s real primitive, sort of like how things were in the ‘50s. Including the fact that there’re no black people anywhere. But there were some interesting things in the news. It sure sounds like the country’s falling apart. Remember when the waitress mentioned Washington and those Midwestern states? On the news they talked about the fact that Washington and Oregon are making a lot of noise about forming their own country. In the Midwest and New England, people are talking about joining Canada. There’ve even been some border fights between California and Oregon, people shooting at each other for no real reason. And there’s violence breaking out in the cities, too. There was a student protest in Texas that turned violent and three kids got killed. It’s getting crazy out there.”

Arturo commented, “I looked over the results of the last several elections. For the last five election years, there has been talk of holding citizen initiatives to abolish slavery in California. But each time opinion polls said they would lose, and so they never pursued it. All the polls indicate that the state is split twenty-five percent in favor of slavery, forty percent against it, and thirty-five percent expressing no preference. There’s no clear majority, so it stays. But the strain is definitely showing. Last week, there was a fight on the UCSF campus between two student groups over the issue. It nearly turned into a riot. And like the border skirmishes Mr. Brown saw on the news, violence is apparently springing up more and more. Things can’t keep going on like this much longer.”

Quinn let out a frustrated sigh. “We just have to get that thirty-five percent with no opinion off their butts.”

“We?” Rembrandt said, with a wink at Wade. “I thought we had a new rule about no revolutions.”

She shrugged. “Well, I never actually put it up for a vote. All those in favor of no revolutions?” She gestured for a show of hands, but no one moved. “All opposed?” She raised her hand, and Rembrandt raised his. “Well, I guess we’re back in business as trans-dimensional revolutionaries.”

Arturo said, “I wouldn’t have business cards made up quite yet. Remember, it didn’t work last time. While outside agitation can sometimes start the ball rolling, lasting change can only come from within.”

“Well, if there is any good news in this,” Wade said, “according to the census two years ago, just over thirty percent of the black population of the U.S. is free. So, you don’t have to pretend you’re a slave.”

Rembrandt sighed. “Well, that’s something, anyway.”

Quinn added, “And five years ago, New Jersey had a state referendum to make slavery legal and it was voted down. So at least things aren’t backsliding. It’s evenly split at twenty-three each between the slave and free states.”

Rembrandt frowned. “Only forty-six states?”

Quinn nodded. “No Alaska, no Hawaii, North and South Dakota are just ‘Dakota,’ and there’s no West Virginia.”

Rembrandt nodded, then shook his head glumly. “But no Lincoln, that’s a shame. Our waitress yesterday, I asked her if she ever got to keep her tips, and when she said yeah, I gave her ten bucks.” No one understood his point. “Two fives. With Lincoln on them.” They realized what he was saying and commiserated. “I was trying to do a good deed, and she probably thought it was some kind of sick joke, giving her funny money.”

Arturo said, “When we start earning local money, you can go back and make amends.” He looked at the other two. “So, work. Tomorrow is job hunting day. I’ll go back to the university and start there.”

Quinn reached for their newspaper and handed half of the back section to Wade. “Have some classifieds.”

She accepted the pages without enthusiasm. “Thanks.”

As the two began to search the job listings and Arturo settled in to read the paper’s front pages, Rembrandt said, “I guess I’ll go hit the streets and ask around.”

The others reacted mutedly. Arturo said, “Mr. Brown, it would probably be a good idea if you stayed here for a little while longer, until we have a real sense of how safe it is for you.”

“I’m not staying locked up in this room for two months.” He looked at them, but they were keeping a united front. “Look, I need to pull my own weight. I appreciate that you want to protect me, but I can take care of myself.”

Quinn said, “Yeah, in a fair fight. Which this isn’t. It’s you against two-thirds of the population. Remmy, it’s okay if you coast on this Earth. You always do your share. But this time, we need to be the guys on the field, and you need to be the one on the bench.”

He reluctantly acquiesced. “And on this Earth, ‘play me or trade me’ takes on a whole new meaning.” The others went back to their parts of the newspaper while Rembrandt glumly surveilled the room that was now his prison.

Arturo walked through the campus with the chairman of the science division, a friendly man who enjoyed bragging about his school’s recent accomplishments. Armed with yesterday’s research, Arturo was passing himself off as a professor visiting from a university in Bombay, India that was obscure enough that no one would be able to trace him easily. The chairman was eager to learn more about a school so far away, and Arturo satisfied his curiosity with enough vague generalities to reassure him that his school was far superior.

They stopped on the pleasant open quadrangle. With the students gone for the semester break, maintenance work was in full swing as groundskeepers and janitorial workers went about their business. Arturo noticed all of them were black. He asked casually, “So, is the school here a slave-holding institution?”

“Oh, certainly not,” the chairman answered firmly. Arturo nodded, reassured. He did a double take when the man said, “We don’t own them. They’re here on contract.”

“Contract? You mean like leased employees?”

“Exactly.” He nodded confidentially. “Except a lot cheaper.”

Arturo had intended to keep his opinions on the matter to himself, but his look of dismay gave him away. The chairman explained, “Oh, I know, it’s shocking to foreigners who see this for the first time. But really, it’s all quite regulated and supervised by state agencies. None of that ‘Uncle Tom,’ whipping people and chasing them over the ice flows cruelty anymore.”

Arturo’s disdain showed more than he wanted: “Isn’t owning another human being cruel enough?”

The chairman’s hackles went up on that, but then he smirked at his visitor. “With all due respect, Professor Arturo, it seems to me my ancestors kicked your ancestors’ butts so we wouldn’t have to put up with that kind of high-handed attitude from an outsider.”

Arturo nodded with a conciliatory smile. “Yes, indeed they did.” He thought for a moment, then asked neutrally, “Are you a slave owner?”

“No, of course not.”

“And yet you approve of it here?”

“It’s simply a matter of economics. Tuitions here are half what they are at schools in free states. We can afford to pay our faculty more, so we’ve got some of the best people in the world. And scholarships are nearly fifty percent higher than at schools of similar size in the Midwest and East. They can’t fill their classrooms, and we’ve got waiting lists a mile long. It’s just good business sense.”

“Yes, that little tax on tea seemed like good business sense, too,” Arturo said, getting a smile out of his host. He asked as innocuously as he could, “Do you have any...colored students here?”

The man shook his head. “No. There are plenty of fine schools out there for free negroes. We had some registered a few years ago as an experiment, but it was too disruptive. After all, students can’t get an optimal education if they’re afraid for their lives.” He smiled knowingly. “People are just more comfortable with their own kind.”

Arturo nodded. “I suppose that depends on how one defines one’s kind. Aren’t you afraid of what might happen someday when slavery is abolished?”

“Well, we’d probably have to dip into our endowment for a while to make ends meet.”

“That’s not what I mean. You have a long history at this school of using slave labor—regulated though it may be—and I would think there would be the potential for a tremendous backlash from the public, white and black. After all, institutions of higher learning are supposed to be enlightened, and ideally for progress. I would think you and your fellows would be working hard for positive change so all students, regardless of race or social standing, would be able to attend your school. You’re in a vulnerable position in a place like this. If society changes suddenly, you’ll quickly find yourself doing a lot of explaining and apologizing...I would imagine.”

The chairman reacted thoughtfully. “I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a concern.” He flashed a hint of a smile as he said, “I guess we’ll just have to make sure that the coloreds don’t get organized enough to take matters into their own hands.”

It was Arturo’s turn to smile. “You know, I imagine my ancestors thought that very same thing about your ancestors.” He allowed a moment for the significance of his words to sink in, and then he thanked the chairman for the tour of the campus and excused himself.


	2. Chapter 2

Back at the suite in the Dominion, the four shared dinner and news of their day. Quinn lamented the lack of easy jobs. “I thought I’d be able to find something, driving a truck, working in a fast food place, something. But the jobs aren’t out there.”

Arturo nodded thoughtfully as he contemplated having another piece of the takeout pizza. “That’s the hidden flaw in slave-based economies. All those bottom-rung jobs go to slaves, so there are no entry level positions for others. And without the entry level positions, many people can’t get started. It’s very stultifying. Economies stagnate, and people then think slavery is a good thing because it keeps things slowly moving along, even though it’s the problem in the first place.”

Wade listened with patience as Arturo offered his impromptu economics lesson, then jumped in during the pause. “Isn’t anyone going to ask me what kind of luck I had?”

It was obvious what her answer would be, but Quinn gave her the satisfaction she was looking for and asked, “So, Wade, what kind of luck did you have today?”

“You’re looking at the newest clerk down at the Rare Medium Stereo Shop. I spent the day reading up on the hardware, and tomorrow I hit the sales floor.”

They congratulated her, and when Arturo couldn’t resist and said “‘Rare Medium’—well done, Miss Welles!” they all laughed.

She said to Quinn, “And I heard that one of the clerks in the music part of the store is leaving in a few days, so you might want to come down and apply.”

Rembrandt perked up. “That sounds perfect for me.”

Wade apologized: “I’m sorry, Remmy. I thought of you when I heard the news...but when I sounded them out about the job...they won’t hire a ‘colored’ to work in the front of the store.”

The grimness of his gaze was more than she could look at. “Man, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll go crazy if I spend another day in this room!”

Quinn reassured him, “We’ll find something. How about if we go job hunting together tomorrow?”

“Thanks, Q-Ball, I’d really like that. Anything to get me out of this cell.”

They finished off the pizza on a hopeful note.

Quinn and Rembrandt spent the next day answering want ads and getting nowhere. Quinn managed to get in to see someone at a grocery store looking for a stock clerk, and they were both initially thrilled when the woman who ran the back office put Rembrandt’s name down for an interview. But their optimism came to a quick halt when she asked him, “Can I see your card, please?”

“My what?”

“Your freeman’s card.” Rembrandt and Quinn looked at each other, and the woman frowned. “You don’t have a card?”

Rembrandt shook his head. “What is it?”

His ignorance obviously bothered her. “Where are you from, Maine? It’s the card to show you’re legally free and eligible for paid employment.”

Rembrandt couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I have to prove I’m free?”

“Well, how else are employers supposed to know free negroes from runaway slaves? I’m sorry, but if you don’t have a freeman’s card, by state law I can’t give you an interview.” She crossed his name off the list.

“How can I get a card?”

“Take your ID from your home state down to the State Employment Bureau and register. You can get a card in about six weeks.”

“What if I don’t have ID that’ll work?”

She gave him a sympathetic shrug. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. But they’re really cracking down on companies that hire illegals. They could shut us down. It’s not worth the risk. I’m sorry.”

The two turned to go. “Well, thanks.”

“Good luck,” she said as they left.

“Yeah,” Rembrandt said with a glum sigh, “good luck.”

Over dinner that night, they could celebrate Quinn’s phone call letting him know he was the new stock clerk at the grocery store, but Rembrandt was still in a funk. Arturo said to him, “Cheer up, there’s always something. I can’t prove I’m a citizen, so I’m out of luck, too. Perhaps you and I could go busking.”

Rembrandt frowned. “‘Busking’?”

“Yes, you know, be street musicians. You can sing and I’ll....” Everyone was looking at him skeptically. “...Pass the hat.”

Rembrandt shook his head. “I don’t know, Professor. I think you’d probably be bad for business.”

It was Arturo’s turn to frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked sharply.

After a moment, Wade said simply, “Ah, the prosecution rests.”

He laughed at that. “Well, not to worry, Mr. Brown. We shall become the epitomes of economy and find a way to live off their meager paychecks. Tomorrow you and I will find a cheap apartment that we can call home for the next two months. We’ll make do.” He patted Rembrandt on the shoulder. “We’ll make do splendidly.”

Rembrandt wasn’t so sure, but he gave them a hopeful smile.

The only apartment that they could find in their price range was in an unpleasant part of town. It was three blocks from the nearest bus stop, and when Wade found herself working the closing shift and coming home after 9:00 p.m., Arturo and Rembrandt quickly insisted on escorting her home from the bus stop. When there was a robbery on the bus on one of her nights off, the new plan instantly became that Arturo and Rembrandt would go to the store and ride with her all the way home. Quinn made a little noise about being left to fend for himself—he worked the 2:00 p.m. to midnight shift at his store—but it was more for the sake of levity than anything else.

At the beginning of Wade’s second week on the job, Rembrandt and Arturo caught an earlier bus and had a look around the store while they waited for her. Rembrandt was quickly in the music part of the store, going through the albums—not a compact disc or audio cassette in sight—and marveling at what he saw. He sorted through the albums with dismay. “Get a load of this, Professor. No R&B, no pop, I can’t even find any jazz. It’s all this...,” he wrinkled his nose in disgust “...crooner ballad stuff.”

“Let’s face it, Mr. Brown, any music with roots in black culture wouldn’t get very far here.”

“Oh, man. Just think, no one on this Earth’s ever heard of Dizzy Gillespie, or Louis Armstrong, or Count Basie or Duke Ellington.”

“Yes,” Arturo commiserated, “it’s a sad culture indeed that’s never heard of Minnie the Moocher.” Rembrandt chuckled.

A well-scrubbed young man who looked like a new and inexperienced manager came over to the two with an overdone concern. “Is there something wrong?”

“No,” Rembrandt answered, “we’re just checking out what you’ve got.” He looked at the earnest young fellow. “Have you ever even heard of jazz?”

The young man grew uncomfortable, then said quietly, “Well, yes, I’ve been to New York. But there isn’t much demand for it here, so it isn’t worth it for us to keep any in stock.”

Wade appeared and smiled at her friends. “You’re early.”

Arturo looked at his watch. “Not too much.”

The young man looked at her with a hint of surprise. “You know them?”

“Yeah. Derek, this is Professor Arturo, and Rembrandt Brown. They’re my friends.” Derek nodded politely, but it was obvious from his concerned glances that he was trying to figure out the relationships here. “I should be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

Derek glanced around the quiet store, then at Wade. “Actually, it’s pretty slow tonight.” There was an obvious spark of interest in his eyes when he said in a soft voice, “If you’d like to go early, I’ll punch out for you.”

She beamed at him. “That would be great.” She looked at her friends. “I’ll be right back then.” She headed for the back of the store, and, as the two watched Derek follow her with his gaze, they exchanged knowing smiles.

Out on the drizzly street on the way to the bus stop, Arturo said casually, “So, Derek is a manager?”

“Yeah. He’s the music clerk who got bumped up to assistant manager last month. That’s why they were looking for someone else.” A flush of enthusiasm when she spoke about him brought more smiles to the two men.

“Sounds like you like him,” Rembrandt said.

“Well, yeah, he is kinda cute.” She smiled in spite of herself.

Arturo smiled at Rembrandt, and then said, “He seems to like you, too.”

She glanced at them, figuring out what was going on. “Okay, guys, no teasing.” The two chuckled. “He’s just a nice guy, and he’s fun to work with.”

Rembrandt said, “Uh-huh,” with a nod at Arturo.

Wade elbowed him teasingly. “Just lay off.”

Rembrandt jokingly put his hands up to defend himself. “Okay, okay! Jeez, Professor, she’s already fighting over her man.”

Wade laughed and teasingly reached to grab Rembrandt around the waist. They laughed and he put an arm around her as they continued down the street towards the bus stop.

None of them noticed that someone was watching them as they moved away down the dark street.

At the beginning of the third week, it became obvious that they would not be able to survive on two small paychecks for another six weeks. A serious discussion around what passed for a kitchen table in the dreary apartment brought up a number of unacceptable choices—living on the streets, camping out in the cold and rain of January, leaving San Francisco for a cheaper town...or splitting up. A cheaper town was the best of the bad choices, but Wade ruled it out because at least in the somewhat large city that this San Francisco was she and Quinn could keep their jobs and they all could maintain some anonymity so Rembrandt could blend in. “Who knows how reactionary a small town on this Earth might be? I don’t want to spend the last of our money getting to a place where they’ll force Rembrandt to live away from us.”

Rembrandt said, “It’s obvious what we need to do. I need to get a job.”

“No,” Arturo pronounced. “We can’t risk your getting arrested for working without a freeman’s card.”

“Look, I’ve been asking down at the Family Market—there’s work out there for illegals.”

Quinn objected, “But what kind of work? And working for whom? You might end up working in some slaughterhouse or down an unsafe mine.”

“Hey, at this point, I could work in a slaughterhouse.” He regarded them with determination. “I gotta do something. I can pass for legal—the Professor can’t. It’s up to me.”

“It’s not safe,” Wade implored.

“We can’t risk it,” Quinn seconded.

Rembrandt acquiesced to end the conversation, but the next morning, before any of the others was awake, he slipped out of the apartment and hit the streets.

Over the course of one of the longest days of his life, Rembrandt walked about twenty miles, stopping at every store, church, and business he came across. It was always the same story—no jobs, or no jobs without a freeman’s card. He sang on a street corner and made enough money to buy lunch before a policeman started paying too much attention to him and he retreated.

A weary man, he returned at the end of the day to the Family Market, the store down the street from their apartment. It was a friendly neighborhood oasis owned by a black family named Jones that lived upstairs, and with luck Rembrandt might have enough left over from his sidewalk concert money to buy a loaf of bread.

Leonard, the twenty-year-old son of the Jones family, was behind the register as Rembrandt approached, a loaf of day-old bread under his arm as he counted out the last of his change. He sighed. “I’m seven cents short.”

Leonard rang up the sale anyway. “I’ll cover you.”

Rembrandt gratefully handed over his money. “I _will_ pay you back.”

“If not, it’s okay,” the young man said as he put a few coins of his own in the register. “Mom thinks you’re handsome.”

As tired as he was, Rembrandt still had the energy for a surprised smile. “She’s got good taste. But I sure hope your dad doesn’t find out.”

“Nah, he doesn’t mind. She’s just window shopping.”

Rembrandt chuckled, then asked, “She doesn’t think I’m cute enough to give me a job, does she?”

Leonard shook his head. “Sorry. We don’t really need any help.”

“But if you hear of something, will you let me know?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Brown.”

“I appreciate it.”

Rembrandt was nearly to the door when a fair-skinned black man approached him quietly and gestured for him to follow into the next aisle. “Did I hear you’re looking for work?”

Rembrandt was on guard with this stranger, but it was the first nibble he’d had all day and he was a little too eager when he said, “Yeah, you know of anything?”

“I know men who hire day laborers to pick vegetables. Show up at a particular place and time, and you get cash at the end of the day.”

Rembrandt’s feet and legs hurt so much that the ache drowned out any warning signals his body might have been giving him. “Where’s the place?”

The man pulled out a piece of paper and pencil and scribbled down an address. “The farm’s about a hundred miles out of town, so they pick the workers at night about half a mile from here and then drive so they arrive at dawn.” He gave the paper to Rembrandt. “You know how to get there?”

“I think so. If not, I’ll ask.”

“Good. Be there by 10:00.”

“Tonight?” Rembrandt looked back at Leonard, who was ringing up a sale. “Okay. Thanks.” He went to the register, but there was a line now and he didn’t want to wait. He tore a strip off the piece of paper and found a pencil. He wrote a cryptic note on the scrap of paper asking Leonard to call his friends to tell them he’d found work and would be back tomorrow night. He put the note on the loaf of bread and left it on the counter before heading out the door into the night.

Arturo was concerned when Rembrandt didn’t show up at dinnertime, and he was outright worried with he still hadn’t shown up when it was time to go pick up Wade at work. There was no sign of him when they returned, and no sign of him when Quinn got home after 12:30. They decided it was worth the risk to call the police about him, but Quinn’s conversation with the authorities on the payphone in the hall was short and not at all sweet—they could do nothing until Rembrandt had been gone for forty-eight hours.

But they could do something. After a sleepless night, at dawn they hit the streets looking for him or someone who might know something. They started at the neighborhood’s nerve center, the Family Market, and arrived as Silas Jones was opening the front door to start a new day. He surprised the trio by looking like he was expecting them. “Good morning,” he said with a friendly nod as he bolted the door open.

“Have you seen Rembrandt?” Quinn asked, not wasting time on formalities.

“No, but we have that loaf of bread he bought last night.” He stood aside to let the three in. “I’m sorry, we couldn’t decipher the note. He wrote something about finding work and we should call you, but we couldn’t read the number.” On the counter near the register was the loaf of bread and the note on top.

Quinn snatched the note and read it quickly. “He says he got a job picking vegetables and he should be back tonight.” He shared a glance of concern with his friends, then turned to Silas. “Do you know anything about this?”

Silas’s face had turned grim as Quinn read the note. “Is that what he said? I couldn’t read his handwriting.” He shook his head. “That’s bad. Leonard said last night around closing time he found a dogcatcher hanging around the front of the store and kicked him out. This is real bad.”

“What’s so bad about a dogcatcher?” Wade asked.

“A dogcatcher is someone who pretends to have information about work and sends people off to get caught by the police, or more likely a slave owner rounding up strays.”

“What do you mean,” Arturo asked, “‘rounding up strays’?”

“Colored people who don’t have freeman papers, runaway slaves trying to find paying work, or anyone else who’s willing to take a stupid risk.”

The three didn’t want to hear this, but they had to. Quinn asked, “What do they do with ‘strays’?”

"If they’re runaways, they return ‘em to their owners for a reward. If they’re coloreds who can’t prove they’re free, they hang onto ‘em to see if anyone comes asking for ‘em. If they don’t, they keep ‘em.”

“What!?” Wade snapped. “They keep free citizens prisoners and turn them into slaves!? That’s ridiculous! It’s immoral! It’s illegal!”

Silas watched her fume with a sad tilt of his head. “It may be immoral, but it happens all the time. And it’s not illegal. In this state, coloreds who can’t prove they’re free are pretty much fair game to the big landowners.”

The three stared at each other, trying very hard to comprehend what he was saying. But it just didn’t make any sense. This couldn’t be happening.

Silas saw how stymied they were and took the practical approach. “Let me get Leonard down here and see if he knows anything.”

A minute later, the sleepy young man was tying his bathrobe belt as the others gathered around him. He perked up when he saw Wade and tried to make himself a little more presentable. At his father’s request, he told the three what he knew about Rembrandt, which wasn’t much other than he bought a loaf of bread and then left it with a note. “Son,” Silas asked, “did you recognize the catcher?”

The young man thought. “I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before in the neighborhood. I think he works for Whitelaw’s outfit.”

Silas shook his head. “Lord have mercy.”

“What?” Quinn said urgently. “Who’s this Whitelaw?”

“James Whitelaw. The second biggest landholder in the state. And the top slave owner. He’s got more lawyers than the state government does. Better ones, too. If he’s got Rembrandt, you ain’t never going to get him back.”

They squelched a wave of panic. They had to get him back. But on this alien, hostile Earth, they had no idea where to begin.


	3. Chapter 3

Rembrandt woke up to the gentle jostling of a moving vehicle. He was lying down in the dark, and he was in pain. Big pain. Major pain. Check to make sure the head isn’t split in two pain. He groaned and tried to sit up. But he coughed with surprise as a foot caught him on the back of the neck and kept him against the floor. “Don’t get stupid,” a voice said with authority. Afraid, confused, worried, he decided to agree. He relaxed his body, and the foot released his neck.

From the size of the vehicle, Rembrandt knew he was in a truck, and a good-sized one. The fear had cleared the last of the cobwebs out of his brain, and he remembered the scene at the place where he was supposedly going to find work. All he found was a gang of goons ready to shanghai him, and when he resisted, one of them cracked him over the skull. What had happened after that he didn’t remember but it was pretty easy to guess.

He tried to get a sense of his surroundings. There were others in this dark place, more than just the man with the large foot. He couldn’t tell how many were in there with him, as no one spoke, but he could sense the press of bodies. How many others had fallen victim to this scam with him? He’d find out soon enough.

He had no idea what time it was, but when he reached to turn on the face light of his watch, he discovered the watch was missing. Damn. His wallet was probably gone, too, but if he tried to reach for that he knew the foot would be back on his neck in a hurry.

He tried to think of a way out of this, an escape, a movement of any kind, but there was nothing to do. He had his bearings enough to know he was in something like an old troop transport truck, with benches on both sides of the truck and an open space in the middle where he was lying. He guessed the people on the benches were the hijackers, and the others on the floor with him were the hijackees. And even if there hadn’t been people around him, this truck had solid walls, not canvas like a troop truck, so getting past the people would only run him smack into a wall. No, there was no escape right now. He’d have to see where this was going and maybe try something later.

The truck rumbled along for a while, then stopped with the motor running. He heard the sound of a large gate being swung open, and then the truck started on again. He had to assume the gate was closed behind them. This was getting worse and worse.

More time passed, maybe ten, twenty minutes, and then the truck slowed, then stopped. The men on the benches got up as a door opened and a blinding light flooded the truck’s interior. Rembrandt shielded his eyes, but before he could get his bearings, hands fell on him and dragged him to his feet and pulled him out into the light.

He stumbled down some stairs that had been set up at the back of the truck and found himself pushed into a line with three other black men who looked about as bad as he felt. He looked around and saw a huge compound that looked a lot like his days back in basic training—some dusty buildings and off in the distance what looked like barracks. And everywhere there were men with rifles and shotguns, and there was a fence around this whole part of the compound that had to be at least twenty feet high. Oh, hell. Getting out of this was going to be almost impossible. And beyond the fence was nothing but miles of flat land. Great. The Valley. He hated the Valley. Even if by some miracle he managed to get outside this place, there would be nowhere to hide in that mile after mile of flat nothing.

Before he could think about how bad this was, he saw two men approach the lineup. One had leathery skin and swaggered like a cowboy, and the other moved with the smooth deliberateness of a gunfighter. Rembrandt was getting disoriented. Was he dreaming he’d been kidnapped and dragged off into a Western?

The leathery man stood before the group as the other hung back a step and observed. As Rembrandt looked at him, he shivered. The second man’s eyes were the color of ice, and his gaze at the black men was even colder. “Good morning,” the leathery man said to the black men as if he were talking to small children. “I see you made the trip safely. My name is Mr. Patterson. I’d like to welcome you to your new home. You’re now the property of the Whitelaw Land Company.”

Rembrandt couldn’t stop himself as he laughed with disbelief. “White law?” What the hell kind of name was that? Was this a joke?

Patterson came over to Rembrandt and stood opposite him. He said in a condescending voice, “Because you’re new here, I’m not gonna knock out a coupla your teeth. That’s the only grace you’re gonna get here.” Rembrandt shuddered, then looked stiffly at him with enough intensity that Patterson understood he’d gotten the message. These people meant business, and he had no intention of crossing them.

Patterson walked down the line of men, giving Rembrandt a chance to look around. He saw a truck by one of the buildings that said “Whitelaw Land Company” on the side. Oh, it was somebody’s name. Still, it was some kind of weird, sick joke. But he wasn’t going to be doing any laughing. He looked at the others in line with him. Men in their twenties and thirties, nothing special about them. One looked upset but he was under control, another had a hang-dog look. The third, the youngest of the three, was antsy and looking like he was about to panic. Patterson seemed particularly interested in him, which made him all the more skittish. He said to all of them, “Now that you’re part of the company, your welfare is our concern. If you’re cooperative and productive, we’ll treat you right and take care of you and reward you. But if you give us trouble,” he said, pausing in front of the nervous young man, “even God can’t protect you here.”

The young man let out a yelp of panic and broke into a run for the road. Patterson frowned as if he expected as much and signaled for two of the men to follow him. A few seconds later the young man was tackled and down on the ground with both men beating him and kicking him a few times for good measure. Rembrandt wanted to go to the kid’s rescue, but even as he tensed, Patterson turned to him. “Yeah?” he said as a challenge. Rembrandt looked into his dead cold eyes. A hint of a reaction and he knew he’d be in worse shape than the kid in no time. Rembrandt didn’t move, and, after a few moments, Patterson nodded. “Good. You know how to listen.” He turned to watch the two men pick up the young man, who was wailing in pain and terror. Patterson gestured towards one of the buildings, and the two men half-led, half-carried the young man away. Patterson said to the three remaining in line, “These gentlemen will take you to where you can get cleaned up, and then we’ll talk to you again.” Big men with big guns appeared on either side of them, and the three were escorted off to one of the peripheral buildings.

With no further ado, the three newest possessions of the Whitelaw Land Company were stripped, showered down, deloused, had their heads sheared like sheep, and were given prison-style dungarees before they were taken to meet Mr. Patterson again, this time in one of the offices. He and a man with a notebook sat behind a large table as one by one the others were led before him. When it was Rembrandt’s turn, Patterson was looking at his driver’s license with curiosity. “Your name is Rembrandt Brown,” he said as he looked at the license, then nodded at him. “That’s certainly a colorful name.” Rembrandt didn’t reply. He was pretty steamed after the indignities he’d just suffered, and he was afraid if he said something it would earn him a beating. Patterson nodded to the man next to him, who wrote Rembrandt’s name in the notebook. Patterson puzzled over the driver’s license for a while, obviously not familiar with anything like it. “So, you’re from San Francisco.” Again, Rembrandt didn’t reply. Patterson put the license down. “Tell me, Rembrandt, what do you do?”

He didn’t understand the question.

“Do you drive a truck? Are you a farmer?”

Rembrandt smiled slightly. There was no way he was ever going to sing for these people. “I’m a traveling man.”

Patterson didn’t seem to like the sound of that, but he kept his reaction muted. “Well, your traveling days are over.” He looked at the guard next to Rembrandt, and the man led him away.

After being fed a bowl of beans and rice, Rembrandt was taken to one of the barracks, where he was put in the custody of an elderly black man named Job. “You mind Job,” the guard said before he left. “He’ll tell you how to get along.”

As soon as the guard left, Rembrandt tried to pepper Job with a dozen questions about what had just happened and how he was going to get out of there, but Job had seen a thousand men like Rembrandt and shushed him before he began. “Look, there are a few basic things you need to know. First, you only gettin’ outa here if they let you out. Second, you give them too much trouble, they gonna kill you. Third, whether you miserable here or you happy here, that’s up to you. Things is what you make it now. You understand that, and you gonna be okay. Everything else is jus’ details.” He eyed Rembrandt hard. “You got it?”

Rembrandt let go a deep breath. “Yeah, I got it.” For the fourth time, he looked at his empty wrist where his watch should be, then he shook his head. He was ready to wake up from this nightmare anytime now. He let out another deep breath. Come on, people, he thought, you’ve got to get me out of here. Now.

Arturo could barely contain his fury. “What do you mean, you can’t help us?”

The composed young lawyer crossed his hands on the magnificent walnut conference room table. “I’m sorry, sir, just as I said, I can’t help you. We can’t help you.”

“Can’t. You mean won’t!”

The young man shook his head. “Sir, you don’t understand. There is nothing we can do. It’s not the money issue. We take on _pro bono_ cases every week. But it’s the law. It’s quite clear that your friend has fallen between the cracks of the legal system. Without his papers, he’s neither slave nor free. And in cases like his, the law simply doesn’t make a distinction between a slave and someone who can’t prove he’s free.”

Quinn jumped in. “But we have witnesses. We went to the place where he was abducted. People saw what happened. They saw that the trucks were from the Whitelaw Land Company. He was forcibly taken away against his will. What more do you want!?”

The lawyer answered with a heavy patience, “Please try to understand. How he was taken is not the issue. The issue is the law. There is no legal provision in the state of California for protecting negroes who are neither slave nor free. You know where he is—that’s great. Maybe you can buy him back.”

The three sat in silence. Arturo gathered himself as his eyes trailed around the conference room, seeing nothing. “Please tell me,” he said evenly, “how we can buy him back if we can’t even afford to pay you?”

Wade wasn’t as calm. “We came to you because everyone said you were the best law firm in Northern California. They said if anyone could help us, you could.”

The young man shrugged. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you. But Smith, Kitto and Freed aren’t miracle workers. We can do no more than the law will allow us.” He stood up. “Good luck with getting your friend back. Maybe you can raise some funds back in your home state.”

There was nothing left to do but leave. They got up slowly, utterly defeated. How could a system be so patently unfair? They left the conference room and started down the hallway next to the law firm’s library. Quinn heard a quiet “psst” and stopped. He stepped back next to an aisle of books and saw a cautious young woman hesitating beside a bookcase. Wade and the Professor stopped as she glanced around to make sure no one from her workplace could see her, then said quietly to the three, “I heard. He’s right, no one here can help you. But maybe she can.” The young woman handed Quinn a small folded piece of paper and gestured for them to move on. She then disappeared back into the stacks. The three exchanged a concerned glance, then moved through the large doors into the hallway outside the legal firm’s suites. Quinn unfolded the paper as the other two gathered around. On the piece of paper was written only a name.

They found the office belonging to the woman on the piece of paper through the phone book listing. The office building was not nearly as posh as the other law firm; it was a decaying old brownstone, not unlike the buildings that went up shortly after the 1906 earthquake in their San Francisco. They stood outside the third floor office, where the door proclaimed in simple, painted letters on glass, “Elizabeth Arlena Speas, Free Negress Attorney at Law.” They opened the door and were surprised not to find a receptionist but one large room. On one side was a desk under a window and a paper-filled table, and on the other was a casual conversation area with a sofa and a few chairs. A black woman sitting at the desk looked up at them with surprise. “May I help you?”

Arturo replied, “I don’t know if there is help for us, but a clerk over at Smith, Kitto and Freed recommended you as a last resort.”

The woman smiled slightly, perhaps knowing the identity of the mysterious clerk. She stood up. “Give me a moment, please.” She quickly moved all the papers off the table onto the low table before the sofa and indicated for them to sit down. They introduced themselves, and she said, “Alright. Tell me the story.”

They did, starting from their arrival in town to their talk with the other lawyer. She listened attentively, obviously taking mental notes. Quinn and Wade took the lead in telling the story, leaving Arturo a chance to examine this lawyer. She was in her forties, obviously intelligent, and with a dignity that gave her even features something of a quiet beauty. Her clothes were not expensive and she wore no jewelry, but she took care with how she looked and was confident and professional in her appearance. Arturo knew better than to judge books by their covers, but, by the end of Quinn and Wade’s narrative, he found himself liking this woman.

When they had finished, Elizabeth shook her head slightly. “They really should issue instructions before people come into slave states.”

“But is there anything you can do?” Arturo asked.

“There are always things I can do,” she answered. “The question is whether or not they’d do any good.” She regarded them. “Am I to assume this is a _pro bono_ case?”

“Well,” Quinn confessed, “yeah.”

She sighed, and Arturo offered, “But I’m available to help you.”

“And how much do you know about the law?”

He admitted, “I’m a physicist and cosmologist.”

She wasn’t favorably impressed by his credentials. “Oh, great,” she said in a gently teasing tone, “you know the laws of physics. So, when I drop a pencil, you can pick it up.”

They eyed each other, and Arturo tried not to smile. He could tell already he was going to enjoy sparring with her. “So,” he said simply, “what do we do first?”

“I take it the reason you’re my assistant is because you two are working,” she glanced at Wade and Quinn, “and you don’t have a green card.” Arturo nodded. “All right. Meet me at the State Office Building Friday at noon. All the slaveholders in the state are required to provide weekly updates on their holdings: names, occupations, locations, and health. We’ll check the list to see if we can find Rembrandt.”

Wade frowned. “Why would they use his real name?”

“Arrogance,” Elizabeth answered simply. “Remember, the laws are for the convenience of the slaveholders, and they know how to play them. Most times no one goes looking for strays. And if someone does, chances are they don’t have the courage or resources to do anything even if they find them. I’ve heard of some slaveholders who’ve ransomed people back to their families. But they’re the exception.”

Quinn asked, “Is James Whitelaw one of them?”

“No.” She stood up. “But there might be a way to work around this. We’ll know where we can start on Friday.”

Rembrandt was assigned the bunk next to Job’s in his barracks—Barracks E—and the old man spent the afternoon telling him the basic layout of the place and what was expected of him. This facility was the company’s agricultural headquarters, also known as the Merced HQ, and the work here was growing produce and processing all the fruits and vegetables grown at the different Whitelaw Land Company facilities around the state. As Rembrandt was new, he’d be given a set of skill tests to see if he was good at any particular trade, and if he was, he’d be sent off to another facility accordingly. If he had no particular skills, he’d stay at Merced and be put to work in the fields.

Rembrandt tried to quiz him about his abduction, did this happen often, how the hell was he supposed to get out of this place, and a hundred other questions, but Job steadfastly refused to talk about life on the outside. “That life is dead to you now, and you’re dead to it. All that matters is here, and how you’re gonna fit in.”

“But I got friends,” Rembrandt explained urgently. “They’re gonna get me out of here.”

Job shook his head. “The only way any of us gets out of the company is if somebody buys us. They gonna buy you?”

Rembrandt shook his head slowly. He knew they’d never get up the money for that. “No.”

“Well then, this is your home for the rest of your life. If you’re lucky, you might get transferred to one of the other facilities. I heard the one at Salinas is mighty fine.”

“But I gotta hope I can get out of here someday. How can you live without hope?”

The old man said, “The only thing hope got anyone around here was trouble. And I seen a lot of trouble in my time. Boys like you that come in from the outside, the first thing they gotta give up is hope of ever gettin’ back out again. It won’t do you no good. It’ll eat away at you until you can’t stand it no more and you jus’ gotta do something stupid. Save yourself the trouble, Rembrandt. Give it up now.”

Rembrandt stared at the old man. “You were born in here, weren’t you?”

Job nodded. “Born here, and I’ll die here, too. I know this place better’n anyone. Even the bosses. Anybody wants to know somethin’, they comes to me. That’s why I’m one of the people they give the new boys to. I can set ‘em straight.”

“Why would you help them?” he said with a nod to the door.

“I ain’t helpin’ them. I’m helpin’ you. I’m helpin’ you stay alive. Because that’s the name of the game now, staying alive. That’s it. That’s the only game you got left to play.”

Job gave a disheartened Rembrandt a tour of the area. This was primarily residential, with barracks and an infirmary along with a few buildings that were for the white overseers. As they walked, Rembrandt noticed that beyond one of the fences was a no man’s land and about a mile beyond was a parallel compound. He asked what the other part was, and Job answered, “The women’s over there.” Rembrandt looked at the other compound to see if he could see anyone, but it was too far away to make out individual people.

“How come they’re all the way over there?”

“To keep everyone out of trouble.” Job watched Rembrandt continue to look across the way at the other compound. “And I think you’re gonna need all the help you can get with stayin’ out of that kind of trouble.” After a moment, Rembrandt did a double take at what he’d said, and the old man laughed.

As they continued their walk, Job explained that the processing plant was in another part of the facility a few miles away, and shifts of slaves were bussed back and forth. It was all separated and compartmentalized for safety’s sake, Job explained. “Yeah,” Rembrandt said, “so if there’s trouble in one part, they can shut it down and no one will know.”

The old man squinted at him. “Jus’ ‘cus we’re slaves, don’t you go thinkin’ you’re smarter than the rest of us. Don’t make the mistake they do. Bein’ a slave don’t mean you ain’t got no brain. We know a lot more than they think we do. We got our ways of gettin’ by. You gotta be smart to survive in a place like this.”

Rembrandt nodded. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay. You’ll get used to how things are here.”

Rembrandt prayed he never would.

The next day, as Job had said, Rembrandt was given a series of tests to see if he had any skills that were of use to the Whitelaw Land Company. Two of the three men he’d been hijacked with went through the testing with him. Missing was the young man who’d tried to escape. Rembrandt showed his new masters that he wasn’t skilled enough to be a carpenter, and neither did he demonstrate any talent for plumbing, painting, electrical work, engine repair, bookkeeping, or half a dozen other areas they were looking for. The foreman who was putting him through his paces was the double for his old manager, which unnerved Rembrandt at first. This Captain Jack Brim—although on this Earth his name was Harry—was a nice enough fellow, and he seemed to have taken a liking to Rembrandt as several times he tried to help him out when Rembrandt guessed he probably shouldn’t have. The only thing Rembrandt showed a real skill at was driving a truck, which the foreman noted, but he said that driving the company trucks was a plum job and he might have to wait years for that assignment. But he added that he’d see what he could do to help move him up a little.

At the end of all the testing, the foreman asked him if he could do anything special that they hadn’t tested him for, and Rembrandt said, “In the Navy, I got pretty good at blowing things up.” The foreman frowned, then decided it was a joke.

“Are you sure you can’t do anything to keep you out of the fields?” he asked, showing what Rembrandt took for a genuine concern for his welfare. “Can you sing, or dance, or act or something? Those guys live pretty well.” Rembrandt simply shrugged. The foreman looked disappointed. “Okay. Field laborer it is. But if you suddenly remember you can do something, you speak up, okay?” Rembrandt thanked him, surprised to find a little kindness in this nightmare.

One of the other hijack victims had carpentry skills, and the other had been a car mechanic before he’d lost his job and ended up on the streets, so they were shipped off to other Whitelaw Land Company facilities. Rembrandt never did find out where they went. But it didn’t matter. He was staying put. And the next day he’d be out in the fields.

At five minutes before noon on Friday, Quinn and Arturo rendezvoused with Elizabeth on the front steps of the State Office Building. She led the way up to the office of the Bureau of Ownership Oversight and Regulation and greeted the secretary like an old acquaintance. “Could I see the list for the Whitelaw Land Company, please?”

The woman behind the counter found a large three-ring binder and handed it over. Elizabeth carried it to a nearby work table and opened to the tabbed section of the newest pages. Quinn and Arturo marveled at the list. It was done on a typewriter, not a computer...and even that week’s list looked to be hundreds...thousands of names long. “My God,” Quinn said numbly, “how many people does this guy own?”

Elizabeth glanced at the cover page. “As of yesterday, 3,233.” Quinn and Arturo stared at each other wordlessly as Elizabeth continued to go through the long lists.

As she flipped the page, Arturo noticed the list didn’t appear to be sorted alphabetically. “Does this office have no computers?”

She glanced at him. “‘Computers’?”

With a quick glance at Quinn, Arturo said, “A mechanical device for tracking information.”

She went back to her search. “Sounds nice. It would probably make some things a lot easier. No. Nothing here to make things easier for anyone.” She flipped another page.

Quinn suggested, “Since this isn’t alphabetical, and they only got Rembrandt a few days ago, wouldn’t Remmy’s name be at the end of the list?”

She smiled as she continued scanning the names. “One would think so, wouldn’t one? But it’s a lot easier to mask strays by sticking them in the middle of the list.” She turned another page, then another, and then she tapped the middle of the page. “There he is.” The men leaned in to look. His listing stated simply, “Name: Rembrandt; Occupation: Field worker; Location: Merced HQ; Condition: Excellent.”

Quinn was only somewhat relieved. “At least we know he’s still alive. But how do we know this is our Rembrandt? This could be Rembrandt Smith, or Rembrandt Jones, or whatever. Why don’t they have any last names down?”

She eyed him skeptically. “Slaves don’t have last names. Most, anyway.” She frowned at the two men. “Where are you people from that you don’t know this stuff?”

They reacted mutedly, and Arturo replied, “Very far away.”

“Yeah, I got that. I was almost beginning to wonder if y’all were from some other dimension.” She didn’t see their stunned reaction to her little joke as she closed the large notebook. “I know it’s him because yesterday I went through their reports for the last three weeks, and there was no Rembrandt. And usually when companies have two slaves with the same name, they change the name of the new one somehow to make it easier to keep track of their inventory.” She pointed to a nearby line with the name “John 247.” The two frowned at the thought that Remmy was now no more than part of someone’s inventory.

Elizabeth continued, “All right. This is where we go from here. As of yesterday, the Whitelaw Land Company had possession of your friend. First and foremost,” she said firmly, with an equally firm wag of her finger at the two, “I don’t want any of you contacting Whitelaw’s company. I know you think if you call their San Francisco office and say ‘You’ve got our friend, hand him over,’ they’ll hand him over. It doesn’t work like that. They’ll hide him, sell him, maybe even kill him just to save the trouble of dealing with us. So, I do _not_ want anyone tipping them off that we’re trying to get him back until we’re ready. You hear me?” They nodded obediently. “Good.”

“I have a question,” Arturo said in a subdued voice. “Could this happen to you?” Elizabeth didn’t understand. “Could you simply disappear one day and become a name on a list of ‘owned employees’?”

“Theoretically, yes,” she replied seriously. “But in practicality, no. I’m registered with all the free negro agencies and associations, and I’m well known within my community. If I disappeared, people would look high and low for me. I’d be too risky to take. That’s why the hijackers lure the desperate and transients with no local connections. People like Rembrandt are perfect victims.” She smiled slightly at Arturo. “Except, of course, he has you for friends. You’re his secret weapon.”

Arturo smiled at that. “I’ve been called some interesting things in my time, but never an ace in the hole.” Quinn and Elizabeth smiled. “Well, from what everyone’s been telling us, the law will not help us free him. So, it looks as though we have no choice but to change the law.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “That’s a lot easier said than done. Let’s try the less earthshaking avenues first. Over the weekend, I’m going to consult with some friends of mine about the case. How many of you are available for a meeting on Monday?”

“In the morning, all of us,” Quinn answered.

“Good. Let’s meet in my office at 10:00 a.m. I should have a fairly good idea of what we can do...if anything. Have a good weekend.”

She stood and reached to pick up the binder to return it to the desk, but Quinn stopped her. “Don’t worry about that, I’ll take it back.” She nodded her thanks, then left. Quinn opened the binder again and slowly looked through the pages and pages of names. His face darkened further with each turn of the page. “Professor....” He tried to find words to convey his horror at this, but his vocabulary failed him.

The expression on his face said more than words could, and Arturo nodded. “Yes, I know.” Arturo looked at the names going by as Quinn continued through the pages. “It’s regulated, packaged, controlled, and sanitized for public consumption. It’s all quite civilized. To those who even bother to get this far, they’re just names on a page. Words, nothing more. I wonder if all those people out there who aren’t opposed to slavery ever think about the lifetime of misery behind each one of these names?”

Rembrandt saw his first beating on his first morning in the fields. One of the workers had apparently said something an overseer didn’t like, and the overseer took out a nightstick and hit him a few times. The worker fell to the ground and took a few blows to the back, but he was able to get up afterwards and stumble back to work. The others paused only long enough to watch the encounter, and then they went back to minding their own business. None of the slaves said a word about it during the meal break, and the only comment Rembrandt heard was during the afternoon when one of the overseers joked to another about how convenient it was that “coloreds didn’t show bruises as much as regular folks.”

After a full day of pulling weeds and clearing away the scraps for composting, back in the barracks Rembrandt fell onto his bunk with a groan. Every single part of his body hurt. He had never worked so hard in his entire life. Some of the new calluses on his hands were bleeding. He could barely lift his hands to look at them, and when he did, he groaned at the sight and let them drop. Job sat down on his bunk and shook his head. Rembrandt moaned, “Man, I am too old for this.”

Job nodded in sympathy, then said, “If it makes you feel any better, I heard from one of the others that you worked pretty hard for a new catch.”

“Yeah, well, thanks,” he replied flatly as he stared at the ceiling.

Job looked at him. “What did you do before? Before the dogcatchers got you? I know you didn’t work by the sweat of your brow.”

“Dogcatchers?”

“Those fellas that brought you in.”

Oh, the hijack squad. Rembrandt tried to sit up, but he gave up and looked at his companion. “I was a singer.”

Job’s eyes lit up. “You can sing? Then what are you doing in the fields, boy? Singers and dancers get treated like royalty around here!”

“I ain’t singing for those people.”

“You are a stubborn fool.”

“That’s right.”

“There ain’t no room for pride here.”

“I’m just doing what I gotta do.”

“And what’s that? Be a fool?”

Rembrandt struggled, then managed to sit up and face Job. “Look, where I come from, there is no slavery. I’m a free citizen. I am a free man. They do not have the right to do this to me. And if I go along with it, I’m telling them they do. But they don’t. They don’t have the right to do this to me, or you, or anyone else. I’m only going to do as much as I have to until my friends get me out of here. I’m not going to be their good little boy. I’ll get along, and then I’ll leave.”

Job shook his head with dismay. “I thought you had some sense. But you don’t, because you wanna be a martyr. And let me tell you, martyrs are the biggest fools around. You know why? ‘Cuz being a martyr around here ain’t gonna do nothin’. Martyrs don’t get remembered, they don’t get followed, they don’t get nothin’. They jus’ get dead. And if you’re dead, you can’t do nothin’.”

“I’m not gonna get dead. I’m just going to lie low until I can get out of here. No one is ever going to remember that I was here.”

The dinner bell rang, and with a great effort Rembrandt managed to stand and follow Job and the others to the mess hall.

On Saturday morning, Arturo, Wade and Quinn had a strategy session around the kitchen table. Arturo said, “We may not know the laws of this America, but we do have an invaluable knowledge of the emancipation and civil rights movements of our own Earth. This place is so content with the status quo that, if necessary, we could probably shake things up quite a bit.”

Wade smiled at him. “Time for those business cards.”

“Yes, well,” he said with a business-like arch of an eyebrow, “first things first. Let’s make a list of all the things we know from home that may be useful.” Wade produced a scratch pad and a pencil as Arturo looked at Quinn. “Any suggestions?”

“Well, there’s civil disobedience.” Wade wrote that down.

Arturo said, “We’ll need to write down all the different forms. But civil disobedience won’t be effective without some public knowledge and agreement. We need publicity and to get the anti-slavery voters aware of what’s happened. Then we can start working on the hearts and minds of the undecideds.” Wade wrote that down as best she could.

When she finished, she thoughtfully tapped the pencil on the paper. “You know, during the Civil War, and before, there was the Underground Railroad. It was mostly run by religious groups, the Quakers, the Methodists, those guys. They had a very efficient system set up for getting runaway slaves to Canada. I wouldn’t be surprised if the same thing’s going on here. They might even be able to help us break him out. If it’s not too dangerous.” She wrote down “religious groups” on her list.

Quinn smiled lightly. “How do you know so much about the Underground Railroad?”

She matched his smile. “I aced the Civil War section in American History.”

Arturo commented, “Your propensity for the romance of history may come in very useful here. How much do either of you know about the civil rights movement of the ‘50s and ‘60s?” The both gestured vaguely. “That’s what I thought. That will be my area of expertise.”

“And how much do you know?” Quinn asked.

Arturo bristled at that. “A great deal. And undoubtedly a lot more than you do, since I lived through it and you probably studied it for a couple of hours in high school.”

“Ouch,” Quinn said, relenting with a chuckle. “Okay, Professor, so give us the intro lecture for Civil Disobedience 101.”

“All right, children,” he began. “Once upon a time, there was a woman named Rosa Parks....”

To Rembrandt’s great relief, Sunday was a day of rest at the Merced HQ, and after sleeping half the morning away, he went outside and found a bunch of the others out in the compound talking, sunning themselves, and generally relaxing. There was even a soccer game in progress with an appreciative audience.

Rembrandt joined a few men from his field gang and good-naturedly put up with a few Sleeping Beauty jokes. The men—Aaron, Thomas, and Daniel—were sort of watching the soccer game, but mostly they were talking. Daniel said he was sorry Rembrandt had missed the church service earlier and invited him to a second service that evening. “There’ll be lots of singing, a real good time.” Rembrandt said he’d like that and agreed to go.

They watched the game for a while, and then Rembrandt gave the compound a more thorough examination. He looked over at the women’s compound, and he could see they were out enjoying themselves just like the men were. He looked at the no man’s land, and his eyes trailed along the fence until he saw something he hadn’t noticed before. On the far side of the compound the fences separating the men and women turned towards each other and formed a corridor into the no man’s land. At the center of the corridor was a nondescript, one-story building. “Hey,” he said, pointing at the building, “what’s that?”

The others looked, then chuckled. Thomas said, “Nothing you need to worry about for a while.”

Rembrandt didn’t understand, and Aaron said, “That’s the breeding hut.” Rembrandt stared at him, and Aaron shrugged. “They gotta make new slaves somehow.”

Thomas added with a wink, “That’s not all that goes on in there. Don’t forget the chitties.”

Rembrandt frowned. “Chitties?”

The others laughed. Aaron said, “Job, he didn’t tell you any of the good stuff.”

Thomas said, “He’s too old to care about the good stuff anymore.”

Rembrandt didn’t understand, so Aaron explained, “If you do something good, like pick more apples than anybody that week, or you save the company some money, or whatever, you get a chit.” He started to smile. “And if you get enough chits, you get a chittie.”

The others were smiling broadly. Daniel said, “Let me tell you, Rembrandt, there is no finer reward at the end of a tough season than one of those chitties.”

Thomas added with glee, “That’s all they do, you know. They are beautiful, and they are soft, and they are well-trained, and they are oh, so willing.” The other two laughed at that.

Rembrandt tried to hide his dismay at the idea of slaves being forced to work as prostitutes and especially at the reaction of these men who thought it was a great idea. Aaron misread his reaction as frustration. “Hey, don’t you worry, you’ll get your chance. Jus’ keep collecting those chits.”

Thomas said, “Just be careful what room you end up in. If they give you the room next to the breeding side of the building, keep your pants on while you have your fun if you’re shy.”

Daniel nodded and continued, “They think we don’t know about this stuff. All the breeding sessions are all very legal, and _very_ supervised—”

Thomas interjected, “You won’t have to worry about that, ‘cuz they pick them big guys for that.”

Daniel continued, “But one of the girls told me that for the breeding room and the first chittie room, they got these little camera lenses hidden in the wall and they make home movies of everything.”

“Yeah,” Aaron said, “like their own women are so ugly they gotta get in the mood by watching movies of our women.”

Thomas added bitterly, “When they ain’t enjoyin’ them themselves.” Rembrandt’s frown deepened. “That ain’t legal, but when they’s watching us, who’s watchin’ them? No one.” The four sat in angry silence for a while, and Thomas said, “Like I said, Rembrandt, that’s nothin’ you need to worry about for a while.”

They returned to watching the game, but Rembrandt didn’t pay much attention to it as he simmered. Before this he’d never really spent much time thinking about just how bad things had been for his ancestors when they were slaves, but this dose of their reality was making him think hard about everything they’d had to suffer through. Had his generations of grandfathers sat together like this, looking at the grandmothers penned up a mile away, being treated like nothing more than farm equipment or breeding stock or a few minutes’ entertainment? God, what they had gone through, and they survived! It was a miracle. As he sat there and watched the soccer game, it felt as if all of his ancestors were watching him now, saying to him, “These were our lives. Know what we knew. And know that we did it for you.” He shivered as their strength surged through him, leaving him dizzy for a moment. An odd feeling of peace settled over him, and without realizing it he smiled. No matter what happened now, he knew he was going to make it.


	4. Chapter 4

The Monday morning meeting with Elizabeth began on a downbeat note. She admitted, “I talked with my friends, and they said Whitelaw is the toughest of the tough nuts to crack. They don’t know of anyone who’s been freed without a hefty ransom.”

The three didn’t like the sound of that. Quinn said, “Well, leave it to Remmy to go for the best. So, what can we do now?”

“Ransoms run from 500 to 2,000 dollars, on average. Is there any way you could get that kind of money?” The three looked at each other sadly, and Elizabeth didn’t need to hear a reply. “Well, then there isn’t much I can do for you. I’m sorry.”

Wade said, “We had a strategy session of our own over the weekend. Do you mind if we run some ideas past you?” Elizabeth gestured for her to continue. “Now, some of this stuff you might not want to get involved in, since technically a lot of it isn’t legal, but under the lawyer-client privilege I think we can at least talk about it.”

“Go ahead.”

After a moment of wondering how far to jump in, Wade said, “There have got to be groups out there who are actively opposed to slavery. Abolitionist leagues, whatever you call them. I figure, if nothing else, we should tell them to get Rembrandt on a list of abductees. Maybe they can even spare some people to help us work on the case.” In the energy of the moment, Wade forgot that perhaps she should be treading lightly into the subject when she added, “And we definitely need to contact the Quakers and the Methodists and see what they’ve got available. For all I know, they might be able to spring him and get him underground.”

Elizabeth had her best poker face on, but the intensity of her gaze at Wade betrayed her surprise. She said in an even voice, “Why would you want to contact religious pacifists?”

Wade realized she’d gone too far, but there was no easy way to back out now. “Well, that’s sort of their mandate, isn’t it? Helping the downtrodden, and all...?”

Elizabeth’s sharp, examining gaze trailed from Wade to Quinn to Arturo and back again several times. She finally settled on Arturo. “Look, if you’re from the police or the OAC, admit it now and we can part company with no hard feelings. Otherwise, I’m going to become very angry.”

Arturo could feel how hard Wade had struck a nerve. He said gently, “May we assume that the friends you consulted with this weekend were from a local Methodist church or Friends meeting house?”

She took his gentle inquiry the wrong way, and the softness in his voice only prompted an increased hardness in hers. “You may assume that this conversation will not continue a moment further until you tell me who you people are.”

Arturo looked at Wade, then Quinn. He said slowly, “Ms. Speas, remember your joke on Friday about us being from another dimension?” Wade did a sharp double take on his words, as they hadn’t mentioned the comment to her. “Well, it’s actually true. We are.”

She regarded him coolly. “And I suppose if I’d joked about your being from Mars that you’d be Martians.” They didn’t react. “Too bad I didn’t joke about your being English royalty, because then at least you’d have the money to pay me.”

Arturo asked Quinn for the timer. He hesitated, then handed it over. Arturo showed it to Elizabeth. “The science on your Earth isn’t as advanced as it is on our own, so I can’t explain how we got here in a way that you would understand. But this device opens a wormhole, a tunnel of energy, between dimensions. And through it, we travel from one parallel Earth to another.”

She examined the timer coolly. “What are those numbers?”

“They’re counting down to the time when we can open the vortex again and leave.”

“When would that be?”

Quinn answered, “March 1st, at 2:02 p.m.”

She held out her hand to Arturo. “May I see it?”

“If you promise not to push any buttons.”

She nodded, and he gave it to her. They watched her as she examined it. She was scowling now, and when she put on her reading glasses to inspect it more closely, her expression didn’t encourage them. “So why did you come here?” she asked, still looking at the timer and not at them.

Quinn answered, “Luck of the draw. We can’t choose where we go, or how long we stay.”

She looked at Arturo. “You built this thing?”

“No,” Quinn said, “I did.”

She seemed surprised by that. “Why?”

“It was a science project.” He admitted with a shrug, “I was trying to build an anti-gravity device.”

She eyed him for a moment, then regarded all of them. “Aside from this ‘device,’ is there any reason why I should believe you?”

Arturo thought of something, then pulled out his wallet. “I imagine your driver’s licenses don’t look like this.” He removed his license and handed it to her.

She gave the timer back to Quinn, then took Arturo’s license. She was quite struck by it, although she was trying not to show it. She asked the other two, “And I suppose you had these made up at the novelty shop as well.” Quinn and Wade both produced their licenses and showed them. She examined Arturo’s for a bit longer, then said as she handed it back to him, “Well, at least on your Earth people fudge about their weight, too.” Arturo scowled as the other two tried not to laugh.

Wade thought, then pulled money out of her wallet. “Here,” she said, handing a five dollar bill to Elizabeth. “I bet you’ve never seen one of those before.”

Elizabeth regarded the portrait. “Who’s Lincoln?”

Quinn said, “You had a Great Reconciliator, we had a Great Emancipator. He was the 16th President on our Earth. He freed the slaves.”

Elizabeth blinked with surprise. “You don’t have slaves?”

“No,” Wade answered. “Not for 140 years. Why else do you think we’re so stupid about all of this?” The glint in Elizabeth’s eyes showed she had several retorts available, but she didn’t use them. “That’s why I know about the Quakers and the Underground Railroad. We went through all of that. But then we had a Civil War in the 1860s, and the North won, and slavery was abolished.”

Elizabeth was thinking hard, and she absently rubbed the five dollar bill between her fingers to test the texture of the paper. It obviously passed inspection, because, when she handed the money back to Wade, she was deep in thought. “So,” she said slowly, “you want me to believe that a science fiction story has walked into my life, and now I have to help you rescue your friend so you can all go back to the planet you came from.”

“Well,” Quinn said quietly, “we hope where we came from. And by March 1.”

“At 2:02 p.m.,” Elizabeth finished, then sighed heavily. “Well, thank God I grew up on Jules Verne and H.G. Wells.” She suddenly shot them a scowl. “You’ve heard of them, haven’t you?”

Arturo said, “ _The Time Machine_ , _The War of the Worlds_ , _Around the World in Eighty Days_ , _Twenty Thousand_ –”

“All right, all right.” She glanced at Wade. “I don’t suppose you’re related to H.G. Wells.”

Wade frowned. “No.”

Elizabeth thought for a few moments and gathered herself. Something in her eyes said she didn’t believe them, but she was willing to go along with this for now. “I have no idea what good it’ll do, but I’ll give you names of people to talk to in town. But remember, don’t advertise what you’re doing, not yet. There’s no use tipping off the Whitelaw people until we know for certain that there’s nothing else we can do.” She looked at them for a bit longer, sighed heavily, then went to her desk to retrieve her address book.

Over the next two days, Elizabeth tried to talk with every judge who had any sort of jurisdiction in the northern half of California to try to arrange for Rembrandt’s release, or at the very least to see him as his legal counsel. She got nowhere, and many of the staff people she spoke with wouldn’t even let her talk directly with the judge.

At the same time, Arturo met with seven different civic and religious leaders. He reported to Quinn and Wade that everyone was happy to speak with him, but few could offer real help. Those who were working openly already had hundreds of others they were trying to help, and Rembrandt would simply be one more name on their lists. The group that had fascinated him the most—and that offered the most hope in the long run—was the Quakers, who on the surface had offered no help at all. Arturo smiled with admiration as he recounted, “They were very polite, listened to everything I had to say, then said they really couldn’t help me, they had a public policy of not interfering. But you can tell they’re very organized and completely dedicated. I swear, I felt as if I were talking to the French Resistance. Very impressive.”

But, he had to admit, Elizabeth was right in that the group leaders in themselves could offer little help in getting Rembrandt back. They all agreed that it was time to become trans-dimensional revolutionaries again and try to shake up this complacent society just enough to break Rembrandt free from its grasp.

Arturo went to Elizabeth’s office to tell her of their intentions, but he found her gathering up paperwork. She apologized, “I wish we could talk, but I’m heading off to court. I do have other clients, believe it or not. I’ll be there all afternoon.” He acquiesced and offered to make an appointment for the next day. But she paused, reading in his face a tired resolve, and something else of which he wasn’t aware, and thought. “Are your friends working this evening?” He nodded, and with the slightest glimmer of hesitation she said, “Well, if you don’t mind an informal setting, how about meeting at my house over dinner? It wouldn’t be anything fancy, but it’ll be filling and good for you.”

In spite of himself he smiled. “That would be splendid. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had a real, home-cooked meal. I just need to make sure I can catch a bus or trolley to meet Miss Welles when she gets off her shift at 9:00.”

“That’s not a problem. I’m right on a trolley line.” She quickly wrote an address on the back of a business card and gave it to him. “It’s two blocks down. ...Is 6:30 all right?”

“It’s wonderful. I’ll see you there.”

At 6:15, he arrived at the address and found a modest house in the middle of a mostly residential block of houses and small apartment buildings. Even before he knocked on the front door, he could smell something delicious—chicken, perhaps—cooking inside. She greeted him with an admonition—“It’s not fair being early”—but when she saw he had brought a fresh loaf of French bread, she happily let him in.

The inside of her house was modest but tidy, a place more of comfort than fashion. His quick assessment: She lived alone, had no pets, and home was a pleasant oasis from work. She put him to work setting the table, and by 6:30 they were enjoying a simple but delicious meal of chicken stew, salad and fresh French bread.

As he had to leave by 8:15 to catch the trolley to Wade’s shop, he didn’t waste any time with empty dinnertime chatter. He outlined for her their simple, but ambitious goal of hotwiring this society’s sensibilities for their own needs. He gave her a copy of Wade’s notes and explained in detail their main goals—press coverage, civic participation, and even a campaign of selling yellow ribbons in local stores. She listened with fascination, then said, “Sounds like you don’t need me anymore.”

“On the contrary, your role is essential. While we’re working on the public, we need you to sift through all the laws and look for loopholes. Generally, the more arrogant the society, the larger the loopholes. And the more fronts the Whitelaw Land Company has to fight on, the more likely they are to see things our way or just plain give up.”

She smiled thoughtfully at that, then admitted, “I’m fascinated with all these ideas you’ve got. I really like the ribbon idea. That’s brilliant. How did you think all this up, and on such short notice?”

“We’re simply borrowing from a great many special interest campaigns from our own dimension.”

“Oh, that’s right,” she said with a slightly amused tone, “your home planet.”

“It’s not exactly a different planet,” he corrected. “It’s a different dimension, but it exists in this very same space.”

She arched an eyebrow, with a scowl a little too deep to be serious, and then glanced around the room. Her gaze settled on her plate, and in a slightly overdone gesture lifted the edge of the plate and looked underneath. As he watched her, he was surprised that he wasn’t annoyed by her theatrical skepticism. She relented from her teasing and said, “But I’m still very impressed with how much knowledge you have about the American political and social scene. For a foreigner, you know a lot more than most citizens.”

He smiled slightly as he sliced a piece of bread off the loaf. “That’s my wife’s doing. She studied political science—as if politics could ever be considered a science,” he sniffed. Only when he finished cutting the bread did he notice the look of surprise on Elizabeth’s face.

“You’re married?”

“I was,” he said quietly. “She died a very long time ago.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I’m sorry.” He nodded in acknowledgement, then offered her the slice of bread. She accepted it and he cut another.

“So, counselor, do you think we stand a chance of freeing Mr. Brown?”

“Well, I’ve learned not to gamble on society. And the OAC—the Owners Association of California—isn’t going to give up without a fight. But your timing is impeccable. If something’s going to happen, it’s gotta be now. This country’s falling apart. It needs something to heal it up and bring it together, and fast. I heard something at the courthouse today that really scared me. For a long time, people around here have made noise about seceding from the southern part of the state. The south is about 60-40 pro-slavery, and the north is about 70-30 against. But for all the talk, it’s just been talk.” She sighed. “But today I heard that two members of the legislature who represent northern districts are actually starting the paperwork for a referendum to secede. I’m really afraid. If they go through with this and people vote to secede, the northern slaveholders aren’t going to roll over and surrender their ‘God-given right to own other people.’ There’s already a lot of violence out there, but in pockets. It’s people taking potshots over the state line. If the state splits, it’ll erupt everywhere, it’ll be chaos. It’ll be neighbor against neighbor, people shooting each other over their backyard fences. And I have no idea how to stop it.”

“But if the entire state votes down slavery, I would imagine that would tend to reduce ‘pocket regionalism’ and give the slave owners less of an incentive to take up arms to defend themselves. They would have little hope of success.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “In the entire history of the United States, no slave state has ever voted itself free. And yet you sit there and talk about it as casually as people voting to put in a stop sign down at the corner.” She looked at him hard for another few moments. “And in essence what you’re saying is our efforts to get your friend back could actually lead to the end of slavery in California, the largest and most vehement slave state in the country.”

“It could very well happen. It’s amazing what little snowballs can turn into by the time they reach the bottom of the mountain.”

She marveled at him. “How can you think like that? How can you think about one person acting on such a grand scale?”

He smiled slightly. “After nearly two years of sliding, I find myself believing in a great many things.”

“Sliding?”

“That’s what we call it, the interdimensional travel.”

She considered it, then shook her head. “I don’t like it. It makes me think of icy sidewalks. Sounds treacherous.”

He said wearily, “You have no idea.” She smiled at him to get out of him some of what was behind that statement, but he wouldn’t allow himself to be further distracted from the point at hand. “But besides that, at home I’ve seen it happen, I’ve seen people change history. In my own lifetime, there have been several people who committed their lives to fighting the forces of darkness, be they invading armies or the darkness within men’s souls. One of them was Winston Churchill.” She nodded in acknowledgement. “And in the America on my Earth there was a black American named Martin Luther King, Jr. He became the lightning rod for the groundswell of discontent that became our civil rights movement. Because, unfortunately, being free and being equal are two totally different things.”

She nodded. “Amen to that.”

“And this man, with every public gesture, great or small, showed his firm belief that he could change the world for the better.”

“Wait a minute. You said ‘black’ American. You mean negro?”

“Yes. On our Earth, during the civil rights movement the term negro became associated with the downtrodden and complacent attitude, and ‘black’ was chosen instead as a self-determined source of pride. In recent years ‘African-American’ started to become more ‘politically correct.’ But I don’t like it because it’s terribly unwieldy, and white Americans aren’t ‘European-Americans.’ And since Mr. Brown never uses it, I don’t feel obliged.”

She was utterly fascinated by such alien concepts. “But back to Mr. King. Did he change the world for the better?” she asked, not realizing how much she wanted to believe that he did.

“Yes. At a terrible personal cost, but yes, he did.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “They killed him, didn’t they?”

He didn’t want to admit it. “Yes.”

She sighed, her thoughts elsewhere. “Some things you can count on, I guess. Change comes kicking and screaming into the world, with ten people trying to push it back for every one trying to help it along.”

At that point she withdrew emotionally from the conversation, and for the rest of the meal they discussed the logistics of their plans.

Elizabeth refused Arturo’s offer to do the dishes and sent him off to the living room as she cleaned up. As he sat on the large, overstuffed sofa, he noticed some photos next to what looked like her reading chair. Most were family, he decided, but in the middle was an old photo of a young man who had no family resemblance. His central position in the display indicated his importance in her life, but the age of the photo made Arturo wonder what had happened to him.

She came into the living room, a pen and notebook in hand, and sat on the other end of the sofa. “We need to map out a timetable of what y’all what to do.”

He nodded, but he couldn’t stop wondering about the young man in the photograph. “If I’m not being rude...who’s he?” He nodded towards the table of photographs.

She regarded the pictures, a small, distant smile growing. “That’s Ted,” she said quietly. With a glance at Arturo she added, “He’s the reason I’m a lawyer.”

He wasn’t sure what tense of verb he should use. “...Who is he?”

She continued to look at the photo. “He was my fiancé.”

He didn’t need to have the past tense explained. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded distantly, still gazing at the photo, then put the pen and notebook down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “He was going to be the first person in his family to go to college. He was going to be a lawyer. We were all so proud of him.” A shadow passed over her face, but she continued in an even voice, “but Georgia—my home state—is almost as screwed up as California. And some people there didn’t like the idea of a nigger goin’ off to college and gettin’ all uppity. So, the night before Ted was going to leave for school...we were going to have a party...and Ted and I were sitting on the front porch of his house.” She smiled tenderly at the memory, and gave Arturo a quick side glance. “He was trying to convince me that since we were engaged, we really didn’t have to wait until he came back....” Arturo couldn’t help but smile, even in the growing melancholy of her story. “Then a couple of pickup trucks came by. It was a small town. I knew every single one of those men. They didn’t even try to hide who they were.” Her eyes never left the photo as she said, “And they decided to teach us and ‘our kind’ a lesson. So, they took us off that porch, and drove us out into the countryside. And then they raped me and made him watch, and then they lynched him and made me watch.”

A shudder passed through Arturo that shook the sofa. She looked at his ashen face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned that. I don’t know why I did. Most men don’t like hearing about things like that. They don’t like ‘sullied’ women.”

“No, no,” he said, collecting himself, “that’s not it. I’m terribly sorry. It’s just that we’ve been sliding long enough, and dropping in and out of places so quickly that...sometimes you forget about the aftereffects of the terrible cruelties humans can so casually inflict on one another.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

She silently accepted his apology. “There was no investigation, of course. It was my word against theirs. The sheriff asked around, and all of them denied it, and that was the end of it.

“I missed Ted’s funeral—I was still in the hospital—and by the time I got out and visited his grave, they had his headstone up. They’d put the phrase on it, ‘He lit a torch.’” She looked at his photo again. “And when I saw that, I knew if he’d lit the torch, it was my job to carry it forward. And I did.” She smirked slightly. “And I know it musta bugged the hell outa those yahoos, that after all their hard work to preserve civilization, not only did they still get an uppity nigger lawyer, they got an uppity nigger _woman_ lawyer. Hoo!” A sparkle of satisfaction lit her eyes.

As Arturo regarded her, he realized he’d never met anyone like her before in his life. He felt humbled, and he felt ashamed of the advantages he’d enjoyed. This woman deserved every ounce of support he could offer her. He remembered something, and reached into his shirt pocket. “I forgot. Miss Welles sold a top-of-the-line stereo over the weekend, and they gave her a bonus.” He produced a check. “She wants this to be the start of the ‘Free Rembrandt Brown Fund.’” He handed her the check, and she saw that Wade had endorsed it over to her. It was $50—a lot on this Earth—and Elizabeth was quite moved by the gesture.

“That’s probably about a week’s salary for her, isn’t it?” He nodded. She contemplated the check with a small smile. “From such a humble beginning, may a revolution be born.”

He smiled broadly. “Amen to that.”

After many late nights of working and mapping out strategies, trips to a local print shop and notions store, and extended research visits to various state offices, they were ready to start their revolution on Thursday morning.

With no fanfare, the four of them went to the San Francisco offices of the Whitelaw Land Company. Elizabeth asked the receptionist to speak with the lawyer she knew would be in the office that day, and, when he arrived, she greeted him. “Mr. Fortunatus, good morning. My name is Elizabeth Speas, and I’m a lawyer representing these people and Mr. Rembrandt Brown, a free negro who was abducted by one of your ‘dogcatcher’ squads last Tuesday.” Even though Elizabeth was speaking professionally and without emotion, the Whitelaw employees tensed at her words. “I was hoping we could talk with you now about this unfortunate incident.”

The company lawyer cleared his throat with a faint smile. Despite the fact that he wasn’t over the age of thirty, he very much had the air of being an old boy in the old boy network. “Miss Speas, as you know, the Whitelaw Land Company doesn’t participate in the common practice of ‘rounding up strays.’ While we do sometimes send out teams to search for lost property, we don’t do random sweeps.”

Without skipping a beat, Arturo handed Elizabeth a bulging folder and she opened it. “We have seven different eyewitnesses who saw Mr. Brown being attacked and forced into a Whitelaw Land Company truck. We’ve searched through your company’s slave inventory lists for the past three years, and Mr. Brown appears for the first time on last week’s list, two days after his abduction.”

Fortunatus smoothly cut her off before she could continue. “Miss Speas, I admire the effort you’ve put into this. However, I’m not familiar with the case and can’t discuss it with you without doing some research.”

Elizabeth said, “Mr. Fortunatus, I’m not here to discuss this with you. We know what happened; no discussion is necessary. We’re here to tell you that we know what employees of your company did, and we intend to get Mr. Brown back with all due speed.”

The corporate lawyer nodded, still not quite able to remove the last traces of the patronizing smile from his face. “Of course. If you’d like to make an appointment with our accounting department to start the negotiation process, I’m sure—”

She said firmly, “We have no intention of paying a ransom for Mr. Brown. And he is not a slave to be bought back with a ‘finder’s fee.’ You have abducted a free man, who has as much right to freedom as you or I. We simply wanted to give you an opportunity to cooperate with us and release him in the spirit of goodwill. However, if you choose not to, we will pursue this. Despite what many people think, there are loopholes.” She said confidentially, “Lawyer to lawyer, I wanted to warn you that this is not an empty threat. I wanted to save you and the company a lot of time, money, and trouble by giving you a chance to settle this quickly and amicably.” She handed him a small packet of papers. “My card’s inside. Please call by 3:00 p.m. tomorrow with the company’s answer. If we don’t hear from you, we’ll assume the answer is no and proceed.”

Wade watched the conversation with a keen interest. She and Quinn were along simply as a show of numbers, but she knew she might pick up something that could be useful later. Mostly she was studying the people involved. The Whitelaw lawyer was giving every indication that he thought this was a bluff but was going along with it. But more fascinating than his arrogance and the receptionist’s constrained fidgeting was what Wade noticed about their side. First of all, the Professor hadn’t spoken a word so far. She knew how indignant he was about all of this, and it was totally unlike him not to lose his temper or at the very least fire off an insult or two. Elizabeth must have read him the riot act somewhere along the way. As for Elizabeth herself, Wade was struck by how strong and assured she was. Maybe this was her “courtroom persona,” but she was much more self-confident than Wade could remember having seen her. For a moment Wade actually wondered if this might work.

Fortunatus looked over the papers in the packet, then said, “I’ll be sure to show this to our chief counsel when he gets in this afternoon.”

“Thank you. I look forward to working out an agreeable solution with you.” She nodded and turned to go.

Arturo lingered before the company lawyer. “Mr. Fortunatus,” he said, his deep voice carrying even more power than usual in his hushed tones, “I recommend you cooperate and let Mr. Brown go. If you don’t, this will become larger than you can ever imagine.” His words were a simple statement, not at all a threat, but the lawyer shivered slightly. Arturo turned and reached the doors in time to open them for Elizabeth and the others.

As the four stood waiting for the elevator, they finally caught their collective breath. Quinn asked Elizabeth, “Do you think they’ll go for it?”

“I doubt it. No one’s ever tried what we’re about to do, so they have no idea how serious we are.” She looked at Quinn, then Wade with more than a hint of doubt. “Are you sure this is going to work?”

“Well,” Wade said, “if they don’t go for it, we’ll find out.”

It had been raining on and off at the Merced HQ for a couple of days, so the fields were too muddy to work. First thing in the morning, Captain Jack—Rembrandt had trouble remembering his name here was Harry—found Rembrandt and told him that because he’d noticed that he had an eye for detail, he’d recommended that Rembrandt be included in a work detail being sent to the processing plant. This seemed to be some sort of compliment, and Rembrandt thanked him for the help. He didn’t understand why Captain Jack—Harry—was being particularly nice to him, and he asked him. Harry was taken aback by the question and said, “I try to be nice to everyone, Rembrandt.” He looked at the foreman, trying to figure him out, but Harry shooed him along and sent him off to the transfer bus.

At the processing plant a few miles away, the men were unloaded and herded into a giant building filled to the ceiling with a mountainous machine. Amid the huge machinery of the assembly line, they were given a few basic instructions on how to sort the produce of the day—Brussels sprouts, which made Rembrandt frown—and how not to be caught in the machinery. Then they were lined up on either side of the conveyor belt, and the giant machinery began to roll. The clatter of the cogs and gears was thunderous, but there was no time to think as a deluge of Brussels sprouts—a waste of good crop land, as far as Rembrandt was concerned—tumbled down the conveyor belt towards them.

At first, trying to separate the sprouts by size and tossing the bad ones was nerve-wracking, but after a while Rembrandt got the hang of it and even started to enjoy it, just a little. It was mind-numbingly boring, but he could let his hands do the work while his brain could turn to other matters. He wondered where Quinn, Wade, and Arturo were, and he wondered what they were doing. He knew they had to be working like crazy to get him out of this. They had to be raising money somehow to bail him out. He wondered what the going rate for people like him was. He’d asked Job about if he had a right to talk to a lawyer, but Job only laughed. He’d asked Aaron about visiting hours, like they had in prison, but Aaron laughed nearly as hard as Job had. Okay, so he was going to be on his own until they got him out. He’d just keep a low profile and do no more than what had to be done, and then he’d be gone from this nightmare. He wished he could help all the slaves, but he didn’t know what he could do from the inside. Besides, he was no crusader. He definitely wasn’t hero material. He’d leave that job for someone else.

As he worked on sorting the Brussels sprouts, the pounding rhythm of the machinery around him began to sound like a solid back beat. BUM-bah-CHIH-yah, BUM-bah-CHIH-yah, BUM-bah-CHIH-yah…. Without realizing it, he began to move to it slightly, and out of the relentless drone of the conveyor belt he heard a familiar tune emerge. He started humming to himself lightly, knowing no one could hear him over all the noise. Wasn’t it a time-honored tradition that slaves made the work day pass faster with singing? But he figured no one around here knew this song, so this would have to be a solo rendition. BUM-bah-CHIH-yah, BUM-bah-CHIH-yah…. “I bet you wonder how I knew,” he sang quietly, sure only he could hear. “‘Bout your plans to make me blue….”

The men around him were beginning to notice him singing, and, with surreptitious glances towards the overseers, they leaned in a little to catch the song. An attentive audience was all the encouragement he needed to sing loudly enough to be heard by those around him. It was so good to sing again, and “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” was just what the doctor ordered in this crazy slide. As he continued to sort the tumbling vegetables, he moved to the ever-present back beat, BUM-bah-CHIH-yah, BUM-bah-CHIH-yah, as those around him leaned in a little closer towards the impromptu concert.

Rembrandt smiled secretly as he continued, “I know a man ain’t supposed to cry/But these tears I can’t hold inside….” The others around him began to smile and move with the song as they worked, and that made it official—he was on.

With such an appreciative audience, he doubled up the coda. When he finished, the men around him cheered and applauded. An angry overseer appeared, and in an instant silence everyone looked down at the conveyor belt and the passing sprouts. The man glared at Rembrandt, who couldn’t figure out what he’d done wrong. It wasn’t as if anyone had messed up the machinery or stopped working. He went back to work and the overseer left. Rembrandt thought no more about it.

On the bus ride back to the residential compound, Rembrandt was tired but feeling pretty good. Harry had done him a favor by sending him to the processing plant; it had sure been a lot better than digging weeds in the fields all day. Maybe he’d get sent back to the plant tomorrow.

As he got off the bus with the others, he was surprised when several guards pulled him out of the line. “Hey, what’s going on?” No one answered him as the men led him off to one of the office buildings.

He was taken into a spare office and deposited in front of a man sitting behind a large crosswise table. All around the perimeter of the room were men with guns, and standing behind the table off to the side was the man with ice blue eyes Rembrandt had seen when he first arrived at the facility. Rembrandt saw Harry standing against the wall with some of the men with guns, but when Rembrandt nodded to him, he simply looked grim and sad.

The man sitting behind the table, whom Rembrandt had never seen before, was looking over some papers on the table before him. He had what Rembrandt’s father used to call “a lean and hungry look.” He was pale, lanky, hard, and scary as hell. “Rembrandt,” he said in a calm voice without looking up.

Rembrandt wasn’t sure if this was a question or a greeting or what. “Uh, yeah.”

“‘Traveling man.’” The man looked at him, a small smile negated by a deadness in his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell Harry you could sing?”

Rembrandt glanced at Harry, who didn’t look him in the eye. “Well, I, uh, don’t really sing. I, uh, pretend I do, but I’m not very good.”

The man said, “I hear you’re quite good.”

“Well, uh, it was the machinery and all, it kinda took the edge off.”

The man looked at him and said in a detached, business-like tone, “Rembrandt, don’t ever lie to me again. Because if you do, I will have you beaten.” Rembrandt shuddered. He knew this wasn’t an empty threat. “Now, why didn’t you tell Harry you could sing?”

“Uh, I didn’t think it was important.”

The man looked at Harry, then back at Rembrandt. “Now, I know Harry. He’s got a soft heart. A little too soft, but no one’s perfect. I know he quizzes new people very thoroughly in hopes of finding them a better position than field worker. He must have asked you directly if you could sing. And if he didn’t tell us, that means you didn’t tell him. Which means you lied to him. Why did you do that?”

“…Because I don’t want to be treated better than anyone else just because I can sing.”

The man considered this darkly for a few moments, examining Rembrandt as he scowled. He set his scowl aside as he looked at the paper before him. “Please tell me the meaning of the following lines: ‘I heard it through the grapevine not much longer would you be mine.’”

Rembrandt frowned with disbelief. “What?”

He repeated, “What do these lines mean?”

Rembrandt couldn’t believe this. “It’s a song.” The man waited for the rest. “It’s about a man who’s just heard a rumor that his woman’s gonna leave him and go back to her old boyfriend.”

The man regarded him, then looked at the page again. “These lines: ‘People say believe half of what you see and none of what you hear.’” He looked at Rembrandt, then the page. “And ‘If it’s true please tell me, do you plan to let me go?’”

Rembrandt didn’t understand what he was getting at. “It’s about rumors, and how people lie sometimes.”

The man crossed his hands. “Rumors about what?”

“Rumors about this woman leaving him for her old boyfriend.” He looked at the others in the room. “I mean, it’s just a song.”

The man behind the table shook his head. “I’ve never heard it before.”

“Well, it’s not from around here.” He repeated emphatically, “It’s just a song.”

The man considered this, then moved the papers aside. “Rembrandt, I’m going to tell you a story. Two years ago, one of our retrieval teams picked up a young man in San Francisco. Nothing very special about him. Like you, he didn’t demonstrate any talents, so we put him to work in the fields. He was particularly active in the church services, and he chose a lot of the hymns and gospel songs they sang. Three months after he arrived, we discovered that this young man was trying to organize the other field workers so he could start a rebellion. He got the word out by carefully choosing particular songs that had subversive meanings. So, we put him in solitary and did a little research on him, and we discovered that in fact he was a college graduate and he had come here from,” he glanced around at the others, “Minnesota, Michigan, one of those states, and he’d come here specifically so he would be caught by one of our teams so he could infiltrate this facility and try to cause problems from the inside. When we discovered that he was an outside agitator, some of our men, including a few of the men in this room right now, took him out to one of the back pastures and put a shotgun to the back of his head and blew his college-educated brains out over a quarter acre of land.” Rembrandt shook at his words and matter-of-fact delivery.

“I don’t want that to happen to you, Rembrandt. You could be a valuable asset to the Whitelaw Land Company. You could live quite well. You could travel, have access to some of the best women, you could even make a little money on the side if you play it right. But if we find out that you’re an outside agitator, or even if you’re a freelance troublemaker, some of our men, including probably a few of the men in this room, will take you out to a back pasture, and put a shotgun to your face, and turn you into so much compost.” Rembrandt didn’t breathe. “I’m going to give you some time to think all of this over. We’re going to give you…three weeks in solitary. At the end of that time, I think you’ll probably have a pretty good sense of how things work here. I’ll talk to you again then.” Rembrandt caught his breath as hands fell on his arms and pulled him backwards out of the room. The last thing he saw was Harry’s sad glance at him.

Rembrandt was hustled down the hall to an open iron door. He was taken down a flight of stairs that led to a dimly-lit hallway. Open-faced cells lined the passageway, and Rembrandt was escorted to the first one on the right. He was tossed into the 8x10x10 cell, and the bars were slammed shut behind him. He turned and watched his jailers turn the key. “But I didn’t do anything,” he said plaintively. It didn’t matter to them. They left. A guard with a shotgun cradled in his arms strolled slowly past, eyeing Rembrandt keenly.

He turned and looked at his new home. A wooden bed frame with no mattress or blanket, and a toilet. The two side walls were solid brick so he couldn’t see the cell next to him, but the wall of bars facing the hallway gave him a full view of the guards—and they of him. There was a window at the top of the cell’s outside wall, but it was high enough that all he could see was sky. He figured jumping up and holding onto the window’s bars to have a look out would only get him a beating. He looked at the guard outside his cell, who looked back at him. He sat on the hard bed. God, what had he done? What was going to happen to him? And how on earth was he going to get out of this?


	5. Chapter 5

Wade could barely concentrate at work on Friday. From noon to 3:00 p.m. was a blur, and from 3:00 on it was a quicksand morass. She’d stare at the clock and watch the second hand click each excruciating second away, hoping and praying that the phone would ring in the next second to tell her that Rembrandt would be freed. But 3:00 became 3:05, and then 3:10. When at 3:30 Derek told her she had a phone call, Wade nearly launched out of her skin. With shaking hands, she picked up the receiver. “...Yes?”

Arturo said simply, “It’s time to cross the Rubicon, Miss Welles. They didn’t call.”

She let out a shuddering breath, then said, “Okay, here goes nothing. Wish me luck.”

“The good don’t need luck,” he said encouragingly, and she thanked him and hung up the phone.

She took a deep breath, then said to Derek, “Will you cover for me on the floor for a few minutes?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.” She headed to the back, where she got her little handmade display case out of her locker. She regarded the photo of Rembrandt next to the receptacle of yellow ribbons. The photo of him taken on Photography World that she’d kept in her wallet gave her courage. For Remmy she could—and would—do anything. But yesterday one of the shop girls got a reprimand from the manager for wearing a blouse that wasn’t up to the company dress code; what would this image-conscious crowd think about the homemade display she wanted to put next to the register? Wade’s confidence that she could get a favor withered. But she had to ask.

She paused before the manager’s office door, then screwed her courage to the sticking place and knocked and opened the door. The manager smiled at her as she approached his desk. If this world had been affluent enough to produce yuppies, he would have been the poster child. “How’s our top salesgirl doing today?” he asked cheerily.

“Great, thanks,” she lied. “Um, Kevin...I sort of would like to ask a favor of you. If it’s not okay, say so, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d consider this.”

He responded to her serious tone and invited her to sit down. With more confidence than she thought she could muster, she told him about Rembrandt and how they were starting a “remembrance ribbon” campaign...and would the Rare Medium be willing to have a ribbon display next to the register? He took it from her and gave it a quick onceover. It lacked the polish the store was so famous for, but, to Wade’s surprise, Kevin nodded. “Sure, why not? Whatever it’ll take to keep our best salesgirl happy.”

Wade gushed half a dozen thank yous as she stood up. Getting a display here was a major coup—this was _the_ stereo and music store in town, and most of the high society shoppers frequented the place. And with the Rare Medium on board, she knew she could talk a number of the other area stores into having displays as well. Kevin went back to his paperwork as Wade happily took the display out to the register. She pushed aside some promotional material and gave it the best spot in front of the register. She thought even Rembrandt’s smile in the photo looked more hopeful now. She took fifty cents out of her pocket and dropped the coins into the receptacle and picked out a yellow ribbon. She was pinning it on her collar when Derek came over to see what she was doing. When she explained the story, Derek said simply, “Oh, was he the man who met you here one night?” When she said yes, he shrugged. “Why not?” He dropped two quarters in the can and took a ribbon. Wade was so happy that she kissed him on the cheek, which made him blush and stammer.

Wade was very conscientious about not pushing the ribbons on customers; if they asked about hers, she would answer, but she would never mention it first. One other clerk bought a ribbon, a girl with whom Wade had become friends, and the others asked Wade about the campaign. Over her dinner break, Wade took several other ribbon displays to stores in the neighborhood, and two agreed to have them while two did not. She was a little annoyed at the people who declined, but she found homes for the leftover displays in other stores and felt good about a successful start.

When Arturo came to pick her up after work, she told him about how well things had gone, and he told her that he too had had considerable luck with stores in their neighborhood. They were both still awake when Quinn got back from work, but he was less than happy. The store manager sympathized, but company policy insisted that the store stay politically neutral, and he wouldn’t allow Quinn to put the display anywhere, even in the back aisles. Only one other store in the neighborhood would take one of his displays. “There are a lot of people out there who just don’t care or don’t want to get involved,” he lamented. “We’re really going to have to move some mountains to get them on our side.”

Saturday was dedicated to meeting with some of Elizabeth’s friends and arranging for talks to religious and community groups over the next week. That night after work, Quinn and Wade were given their assignments, and the next morning, ready or not, they were on their way.

Quinn distractedly sat through the church service at the Methodist church in the heart of a white, middle class neighborhood. He wasn’t much for public speaking, and even though Elizabeth had made all the arrangements for him to be here, he wasn’t sure if this well-off crowd would really be interested in listening to him. When the minister stood to give his sermon, Quinn reached for his ribbon display and took a deep breath. The minister announced his sermon would be abridged today as they had a special guest, and he introduced Quinn. He walked up to the pulpit and cleared his throat nervously.

“Hello. I want to thank Reverend Templeman for allowing me to be here today. My name is Quinn Mallory, and I would like to ask for your help. A friend of mine, Rembrandt Brown, was recently abducted by a dogcatcher squad from the Whitelaw Land Company.” There was a slight rustle two thirds of the way back in the church, but Quinn continued. “We’ve spoken with one of their lawyers, and the only way they’re going to let him go is if we pay them a ransom. But Rembrandt’s a free man, and we don’t think they have the right to kidnap people like this and get away with it. So, we want to start a public awareness campaign about what’s happened to Rembrandt, and what’s happened to thousands of other people over the years.” He took a breath as his anger began to rise. “People don’t want to think about it. They don’t want to look at the fact that people are kidnapping their fellow citizens and stealing the rest of their lives. They don’t want to know that this can happen here, that the freedom they enjoy is really that precarious.

“So, what we’re doing is setting up a public awareness campaign. We’ve got these,” he held up the ribbon display, “yellow ribbons that people can wear in remembrance of Rembrandt and all the others who’ve been taken. If you have a business, it would be really great if you’d have one of these out front where your customers can see them. There’s a coin thing here, and we’re asking for fifty cents for each ribbon. The money will go to help pay for our lawyer. And we’re also looking for volunteers who want to help with everything from cutting more ribbons to making flyers to helping with the legal research. And if anyone here works for a television or radio station or a newspaper, we’d really love to get some publicity. ...This whole thing has continued for this long because it’s a dirty little secret that people don’t want to look at. And we think it’s time people really had a good, hard look at it.”

He scanned the faces of the people in the pews, searching for some sort of reaction. There were some nods, but overall the response was polite. Well, he’d tried. And he had another chance at the 11:00 o’clock service...assuming the minister would let him talk again. He thanked the minister and went back to his spot on the side aisle in the front pew. The minister got up and began his sermon on brotherly love and doing the right thing, but all Quinn could think about was all the things he’d forgotten to mention, that they were also in need of cash donations, nice clothes for media situations, and even a car or two if people could loan them. He knew he should have written this down.

As he was searching through his pockets for a piece of scrap paper, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and saw the woman behind him smiling and handing him something. It was five dollars. Astonished, he thanked her. He was putting the money in his jacket pocket when she tapped him on the shoulder again. This time she handed him twelve dollars. He thanked her, and pocketed those bills as well. Another tap, another five dollars. Another tap, ten more. He turned and looked back at the congregation. Quietly, wordlessly, a stream of money was being passed from hand to hand, row to row, up towards him. He looked across the aisle and saw the same thing happening there, with the money accumulating with the person on the center aisle in the front pew. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

When the service was over, he noticed a small commotion in the back of the church, as a man and woman left more quickly than anyone else, but he was soon distracted by a crowd of people gathering around him with good wishes, more cash, and offers to help.

As the last of the crowd left, the reverend joined him. “I’d say that went quite well. If you can give me a cash total, I’m sure the eleven o’clock crowd will rise to the challenge,” he said with a wink.

Quinn nodded, then said, “What was that with the couple that left so quickly?”

“Oh,” the minister said thoughtfully. “George and Lita Hansen. George works for the Whitelaw Land Company.”

Quinn was a little dismayed. He knew they would find out about this sooner or later, but he wasn’t expecting the cat to be out of the bag quite this quickly.

By midafternoon, the four rendezvoused at Elizabeth’s office to compare notes. Both Arturo and Elizabeth reported good success at their presentations, and Quinn got a hearty congratulations for his good work and $594. He reluctantly told them about the Whitelaw employee in the congregation, but Elizabeth said that wasn’t a problem—now that the ball was rolling, they’d find out soon enough.

Wade wasn’t listening, her eyes tired and her thoughts elsewhere. When Arturo asked her how things had gone for her, she finally snapped out of it. “I couldn’t believe it,” she said slowly. “When I finished my talk, this woman in the middle of the church just stood up and started talking. She said she never thought she’d live to see the day that whites would be helping coloreds like this. She said someday she’d tell her grandchildren that she was there when it began. And then she started crying.”

Her own eyes began to redden. “And then they gave me a standing ovation.” She reached into her pocket and produced a hefty wad of bills. “They gave me $863. And the offer of a car. And the use of their parish house every evening except Tuesdays and Sundays.” She looked at Arturo and Elizabeth. “And you two have an appointment tomorrow at 3:00 with the assistant city editor of the _Tribune_. And you know the saying, ‘he’d give you the shirt off his back’? Two people literally gave me their coats, and they said if they’re the right size, they’ll have more nice clothes for us to wear in public.” She shook her head. “It’s like they’ve been waiting all this time, just waiting for someone else to start it. I couldn’t believe it. I just sat there and cried.” Quinn patted her hand.

Elizabeth nodded. “Well, we’re on our way. I just hope we can keep up.”

The article in the _Tribune_ broke like a firestorm across the Bay. It was straightforward enough, the story of people trying to rescue a friend. But the photo of Elizabeth and Arturo, with him holding up the photo of Rembrandt that now graced ribbon display boxes in dozens of stores around the city, revealed every bit of their resolve to see Rembrandt set free. And the placement of the story—front page, with the photo taking up three columns—added weight to an already weighty story. Within fifteen minutes of the paper hitting the streets, the phone in Elizabeth’s office began ringing. Alice, the volunteer from Elizabeth’s church, was overwhelmed and could barely keep up with the barrage of calls.

The public response was far from unanimous. Many people sent money and encouragement; some sent death threats. People wondered angrily about why Rembrandt was so special that the entire society should be turned upside down just for him, and others worried that the state’s economy would be jeopardized by this private argument that they’d taken public.

Support came in strange ways—restaurants offered Arturo and Elizabeth free meals, while a notions store offered all the yellow ribbon the group could use. The religious groups were as good as their word, and on the second night after the article appeared in the paper, an all-white confirmation class cut and tied ribbons alongside the members of the youth choir from Elizabeth’s church. Wade and Quinn gave talks on their mornings off, and while there were occasional disagreements, they usually found the audiences receptive.

Setbacks came just as quickly as the successes, however. Quinn went to work straight from a meeting with a youth abolitionist group and forgot to take off his yellow ribbon. A customer, who worked for the Whitelaw family, vehemently complained; the manager, who personally had given Quinn money for the Free Rembrandt Brown fund, was forced to fire him. As he wrote out Quinn’s final check, he almost had tears in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I wish there were something I could do.”

Quinn didn’t blame him but was angry about the situation and fired back, “You could tell that woman to go get a life.”

The manager didn’t understand Quinn’s turn of phrase, but when he handed Quinn the check he said, “I’m really sorry. You’re a good worker, and you’re good with the customers. If you need a reference, just ask.”

Quinn looked at the small amount of his last paycheck and said sadly, “What I really need is a job.”

The man frowned and thought for a moment, and then pulled out his wallet. “Here, take this.” He handed Quinn $30. “It’ll help you get by until you find something else. And if you have anything left over, put it in the fund.”

Quinn was embarrassed at his anger, and he felt sorry for this good man caught in a bad situation. “Thanks. I’m sorry if I got you into trouble.”

The man shook his head. “No, I’m fine. If I hear about a job somewhere, where can I reach you?”

Quinn shrugged. “The ‘Free Rembrandt Brown’ headquarters, I guess.” They shook hands, and Quinn left.

With nowhere to go, he decided to catch the bus to Wade’s shop to see how things were going. She was surprised but pleased to see him, and she commiserated when he told her what had happened. He asked her how things were at the store, and she said, “Ever since that article came out, these ribbons have been an ultra-hip item. Suddenly everyone started wearing them. Even the manager, and I don’t think he’s had a socially responsible thought in his life. And clerks love to tell customers that this was _the_ first ribbon box in town. Sheesh. Some of them are so shallow I can’t stand it.”

Derek wandered over and gave Quinn a quick onceover, and not an approving one at that. “Wade, is this a friend of yours?”

“Yeah, Derek Owen, this is Quinn Mallory. He’s a friend.”

Derek nodded, not particularly liking what he saw in the good-looking guy who was considerably taller than he was. “Are you one of the Rembrandt Brown people, too?”

“Yeah.” Quinn was also giving Derek a scrutinizing gaze, and he didn’t care for the protective way this guy was acting around Wade. Plus, there was something shifty about him.

Wade watched the mutual examining going on and was highly amused.

“So,” Quinn said to Wade, “how many ribbons have you sold?”

Wade looked at the display. “It’s weird. I know there were twenty-five ribbons in here to start with, and there are only seven now, but there’s only $1.50 in the container. Either everyone’s stealing the ribbons, or someone in the store took the money.”

Derek frowned. “I’m sure no one here would do that.” He saw a customer trying to get his attention and excused himself.

“I’m sure,” Quinn echoed sarcastically as he watched Derek walk away.

“What?” Wade said, trying to hide her amusement.

“I don’t like that guy.”

“Why? Because he thinks I’m cute?”

He thought her statement was completely out of left field and he frowned. “No. I just think he’s one of those people who’s nice only when he has to be.”

“Oh, thank you, Dr. Freud. I’m so glad you could figure that out after an exchange of ten words.”

He squinted at her. “Maybe my vision isn’t clouded by him thinking I’m cute.”

“You know, Quinn, you really don’t do jealousy well,” she said teasingly.

He shook his head just as teasingly. “That’s because I don’t do jealousy.” He headed for the door.

“I’m sure,” she said after him, and he wagged his head to say he’d heard but he wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. She chuckled as she watched him leave.

Feeling a little guilty about it, Arturo and Elizabeth enjoyed a very nice meal at one of the posher restaurants to offer them free dinners. He tried to order a bottle of wine with the meal, but she declined. “I’m a Baptist. We don’t do that kind of thing.”

He nodded but kept reading the wine list. “Well, I was an Anglican once upon a time, and let it never be said that people in the C. of E. don’t know how to have a jolly good time.” He chuckled to himself, and when he looked up at her he saw she was smiling at him.

“What an odd mix you are,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re this super-intellectual, with,” she nodded apologetically, “forgive me, but this really big ego....”

“Ego?” he said innocently. “Me? Surely you have me mistaken for someone else. Now hubris, hubris and I go way back. But ego, no.”

She laughed lightly. “So, you’re this incredible intellectual, and yet lurking in there is this very playful side that’s just adorable.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “Am I blushing yet?”

“No. I’ll let you know when you start.”

“Thank you.”

“I just think you’re this very interesting combination. Very formal, very stuffy, an incredible body of knowledge—”

He blinked brightly, then did an overdone disappointment. “Oh. ‘Of knowledge.’”

She laughed, then with her foot gave his leg a playful tap under the table. “And then you go and do things like that. How am I supposed to treat you like a client when you act like that?”

He gave her an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry. I’m just in a giddy mood today. I have no idea why.”

That was a lie. He knew very well what was happening...even if he didn’t want to admit it. He first realized it during the interview with the editor at the _Tribune_. It had been so easy being her second, letting her take the lead. She was a natural leader, whether she realized it or not. He had been watching her as she was speaking about the others like Rembrandt who had disappeared in the middle of the night. Her passion, her frustration, her desire to do something about it had now found an outlet, and she was speaking so forcefully, so directly, probably with more power than she ever had in her life. And as he watched her, he realized that she was becoming who she really was, what this repressive society wouldn’t let her be...and, more than anything else, he wanted to watch her grow and blossom. Of course, he wasn’t falling in love with her. That was ridiculous. He didn’t have time for that. And even if he did, this certainly wasn’t the right time or place. They had much too much work to do. But he was becoming extraordinarily fond of her. He was going to have to watch himself that it went no further than that.

They enjoyed their meal, and several times patrons came by to acknowledge them. He was enjoying the instant celebrity more than he should, he knew that, but it was all for a good cause, helping to publicize Rembrandt’s plight, so where was the great harm in it? One middle-aged woman on her way out with her family stopped by the table to thank them. “I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing. The best of luck to you.” She added confidentially with a winking smile, “And I think you two make a wonderful couple.”

After she left, Arturo nervously quipped without actually looking at Elizabeth, “A wonderful couple of whats?” Out of the corner of his vision he saw her look down, but to his surprise he was afraid to look her in the eye.

The moment was broken when the maître d’ came to their table to ask how their meal had been. Both expressed their great satisfaction, and the maître d’ assured them that they would always be welcome and asked them to return as often as they liked. He was just a little too smarmy for their tastes, and after he left, Elizabeth said quietly, “I think the only reason they’re in this is because they don’t like the unfair advantage the slave-staffed restaurants have.”

“Well, politics does make strange bedfellows.” When he realized what he’d said, and its other connotation in light of what he’d just been thinking, he blushed deeply.

Elizabeth watched him turn red. “Are you all right?”

He nodded, glad she had mistaken what had happened, and cleared his throat loudly. “Just got a little something caught in my throat, that’s all.” He quickly took a swallow from his glass of water and tried to gather himself. “Ready?” She nodded and they left.

They stepped out into the cool evening and the bustling parking lot. He was savoring the brisk air when an elderly woman came out of the restaurant past them and suddenly spat on him. “Turning on your own kind,” she snarled as she went past.

He was furious. As she walked away, he bellowed, “Madam, I do not know what your ‘kind’ is, but my kind is humankind!” She ignored him as he fumed, but other restaurant patrons turned with surprise to look at the commotion.

Elizabeth put a gentle hand on his arm. “Down, boy. Don’t bark at strangers.”

He fumed and fired off a string of epithets to no one in particular, and after she used a tissue to wipe the spittle off his coat, she steered him out of the parking lot to the street. He was still grumbling, so she nudged his arm. “Let’s go for a walk.”

They started down the street, and after a couple of blocks, he’d calmed down enough to speak a complete sentence that didn’t have “blistering idiot” in it somewhere. When he was finally settled, another two blocks later, he said to her with appreciation, “Thank you. You’re very good. People like me need people like you around.”

She smiled, but didn’t reply. She looked at the neighborhood. “Doesn’t Wade work around here somewhere?”

He hadn’t realized they were so close to her shop. “Yes, about five blocks down.”

“What time does she get off work? Don’t you always meet her?”

He glanced at his watch. “Half an hour. Shall we shop?”

“Look only, not shop.” They continued down the street, and after a while she said, “You’re always so formal. Calling me ‘Mizz Speas.’ You know, I don’t know why you call me ‘mizz.’ You’re not from the South.”

He pondered that. He’d been saying “Ms. Speas,” but that title must not have come to this Earth yet.

She continued, “But I’d really rather you call me Elizabeth. The others do, and I’d like you to as well.”

He considered it, then nodded. “All right.”

“...And do you go by Max?”

He was getting a little uncomfortable with this. “Sometimes.”

“Well, certainly your friends don’t call you that. But if your friends don’t, who does?”

He didn’t want her to call him that. He wanted to keep at least a little distance from her. But how could he say no? “Well, all right, but not in public.”

“Oh,” she said. “So, in public it’s just ‘Your Highness.’”

He frowned. “No. ‘Your Hubrisness.’ Please, get it right.”

“I’ll try. Why are you like that? Always so formal with your friends.”

“Because that’s the way I am. That’s the way I choose to be.”

“Oh,” she sighed, “the luxury of choice. The predominant domain of the white male.” He didn’t know how to respond to that, and she relented with an apologetic glance. “Nothing personal. ...Oh, I forgot to tell you. We got a call at the office today from the local bureau chief of _Newsweek_. He wants to do a story on us and Rembrandt.”

“That’s excellent. National coverage would be invaluable.”

“We need to get some TV and radio stories, though. A lot of the people we need to reach can’t read. If we can get on the air, then we’ll really be moving.”

They strolled through the pleasant evening to the Rare Medium, where they found Wade restocking the classical albums. She was happy to see them, but she had to share the bad news about Quinn’s job. They commiserated, then wandered through the store so she could finish her work.

A customer recognized Elizabeth, who was startled when this complete stranger came up and talked to her like an old friend. As he watched, Arturo realized she would have to get used to this quickly, because despite what she might think, her life from now on would never be the same. He came to her rescue and chatted with the stranger briefly, then casually pulled Elizabeth away. They found a quiet corner and idly looked over the music.

Wade found herself watching them as she worked. They were chatting quietly, sometimes laughing. At first something about the Professor seemed odd to her. He was solicitous, attentive...no that wasn’t it. He was just plain happy. Wade smiled. He had all the classic signs, and she thought Elizabeth had them, too. She laughed to herself. This was too cute.

After the shop closed, they took Wade home, and then Arturo saw Elizabeth home safely. When he returned after 10:00, Wade watched him come in and smiled. Quinn saw her watching the Professor as he hung up his coat and tried to figure out what the smile was all about. But before he could ask her, Arturo joined them and expressed his condolences to Quinn about his job. He shared the good news about _Newsweek_ , and then with a weary yawn excused himself and retired for the evening.

Wade’s smile reappeared at his departure, and Quinn finally asked her what was going on. “Oh, this evening when he and Elizabeth were in the store waiting for me, they were so adorable.”

“What do you mean, ‘adorable’?”

Wade marveled once again at how dense Quinn the genius could be. “Haven’t you ever noticed that when the two of them are together, they just click?”

He didn’t understand. “Click?”

She shook her head. “Yeah, as in being a couple.”

Quinn’s face fell open with surprise. “Couple?”

“Yeah, couple. As in he’s a man, she’s a woman. Do I need to draw a diagram?”

He stared at the closed bedroom door. “Are you sure?”

“Well, I don’t think anything’s happened. But the potential’s definitely there.” Quinn was now frowning at the door. She noticed and didn’t approve of his disapproval. “Do you have a problem with this?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Like, she’s from another dimension problem. What’s going to happen when we slide?”

“He’s a grown man. I’m sure he can handle it.”

He was becoming agitated. “I don’t like this. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Would you lighten up? He’s not doing this on purpose. It just happens sometimes.”

He wasn’t lightening up. “I gotta talk with him in the morning.”

“No, you do not. Quinn, you’re about to start acting like a jerk. Stop it.”

Quinn stopped arguing, but he didn’t stop worrying.

Rembrandt’s stay in solitary confinement gave him a lot of time to think, as the man who’d sent him here had promised. He’d long since realized that it had to be one of the slaves around him that turned him in. There was no way any of the overseers could have heard him well enough to quote the lyrics like that. Why a slave would turn on one of his own hadn’t been hard to figure out. He’d probably earned plenty of chits for turning him in. Who knows? Maybe for something this big he’d earned this place’s version of a four-day pass at Disneyland. These people were experts at splitting up the slave population, and part of that probably included turning the different parts against each other. As long as they kept them competing instead of working together, they could keep things under control for a long time to come.

The only breaks in Rembrandt’s days were his meals. Not that they were much to look forward to. Breakfast was brown rice, lunch was brown rice with a little water and a couple of beans to make it pass for soup, and dinner was brown rice and a slice of back bacon or something less appetizing. When he wasn’t thinking about how miserable this situation was, he spent his time exercising a little with sit-ups and push-ups, and he sang a bit to himself. He learned quickly which of the guards liked his singing and which didn’t, and he always made sure never to sing loudly enough to be heard through the window. At night the guards were less attentive, and he would have time to pull himself up on the bars and look out. One guard in particular slept his night shifts away, and Rembrandt had figured out how to stand his bed frame on end and balance on top of it so he could look out in some comfort. He couldn’t see much—mostly just the open area in the middle of the compound—but at least he could remember that there was a world out there, a world he’d be going back to if they didn’t decide to kill him. The nights in the cell were cold, but since they wouldn’t give him a blanket, he knew how to curl up and preserve his body heat. If nothing else, all the lessons he’d learned sliding had made him resilient.

He thought constantly about the others, wondering what they were doing and wondering if they missed him as much as he missed them. He could imagine how each of them was handling all of this and trying to get him out—Quinn would be figuring out some weird escape plan, Wade was trying to organize the masses, and Arturo was running around yelling at people. He smiled. They were good folks. They were going to get him out, he knew it. If anyone could, they could. His real comfort in all of this was knowing that they’d do whatever down and dirty task it would take to free him.

The dinner at the elegant house of the Episcopal bishop of San Francisco was an upbeat, friendly affair. It was Wade’s night off, so she joined Quinn, Arturo and Elizabeth as they dined on stuffed salmon, fresh asparagus and a delectable array of desserts with the bishop, his wife, and several key Episcopalian leaders from the Bay Area. After all of the scrimping and saving the Sliders had been doing to make ends meet, the feast was especially luxurious.

The diners stayed around the table after dessert and chatted. An excellent wine was served—Elizabeth demurred—and the talk became jovial and even silly. As so often happens, the Episcopalians began telling Episcopalian jokes. Arturo contributed one:

“A very devout woman died and went to the afterlife. St. Peter was giving her a tour, and on the way, she saw a pit full of people who were writhing and gnashing their teeth. She asked, ‘Who are they?’ St. Peter said, ‘They’re Baptists who went dancing.” Elizabeth smiled and shrugged, and the others chuckled. “They then went past a second pit full of people writhing and gnashing their teeth. She asked who they were, and St. Peter said, ‘They’re Catholics who ate meat on Friday.’ They came to a third pit with people writhing and gnashing their teeth, and she asked who they were, and he explained, ‘They’re Anglicans—Episcopalians—who ate their dessert with their salad forks.’” Everyone laughed, the bishop most of all.

The bishop sighed and wiped a mirthful tear from the corner of his eye. His expression turned wistful. “Such good company. But, unfortunately, we must get to the real point of the evening.” He looked at Elizabeth with regret. “While I personally think what you’re doing is wonderful and I applaud you, you realize I can’t give you the public support of the diocese.”

Wade’s tongue had been loosened by the wine and she said more sharply than she intended, “Why not?”

Elizabeth said coolly, “Most of the big slave owners are Episcopalians. Especially the Whitelaw family.”

The bishop nodded, then added, “And as much as I’d like them to free their slaves—they all know how I feel—I know you’re going to get enough popular support to put a great deal of pressure on them. I don’t want them to feel like they’re getting hit from all sides. They’re part of our community. Some of the families have been members of the parish for three or four generations. I can’t take away their last refuge. I don’t want them backed into a corner. I don’t want them to think that the only choice they have is to lash out. I’m not going to tell them that they’re doing the right thing, but I’m also not going to cast them out.” Elizabeth nodded with disappointment but understanding. “They need tolerance from us, not chastisement. After all, Jesus set the example of dining with sinners as often as saints.”

Wade said with annoyance, “Yeah, but I seem to remember a little incident with some money changers in the temple.”

The bishop smiled at her, then said, “Miss Welles—is your family from the town of Wells in Somerset? The late bishop of Bath and Wells was a dear friend of mine.”

“No,” she said flatly, not interested in chatty small talk.

He nodded. “Miss Welles, please try to understand. When you’re young, things seem so cut and dried. But they’re not. Everyone beating the slave owners over the head isn’t going to help. A varied approach will work a lot better, I think. You folks can do the stick, we’ll do the carrot. I believe that will be a lot more successful in the long run.”

Both Wade and Elizabeth turned their eyes to Arturo, whose displeasure with the bishop’s placating attitude shone like an angry beacon on his face. He sighed heavily, but he said nothing. Wade was in awe. The volcano of Mount Arturo should have erupted in fiery eloquence. She glanced at the relieved Elizabeth.

There was no doubt about it, Wade realized. There was only one force in the universe mightier than the Professor’s indignation. The man was in love.

Rembrandt awoke with a start in the middle of the night at the sound of a body falling down the flight of stairs. He saw a black man sprawled on the floor outside his cell and trying to get up, but guards soon scooped him up and dragged him down the hall to one of the far cells. Rembrandt couldn’t see what was going on, but when he heard a body slam into the wall and then the sounds of a beating, he knew all too well what was happening. He pressed against the bars and was about to shout out a protest when the regular guard opposite his cell glared at him and crossed his arms, holding his shotgun even more prominently. “Yeah?” he said. His eyes cut through Rembrandt. “Wanna join him?”

Rembrandt glared at him, then hit the bars in frustration and retreated to his bunk. In agony, he listened to the beating, which seemed to take forever, and then he watched the guards appear from the end of the hall as they headed for the stairs. One glanced at Rembrandt as they passed, and then they were gone. Rembrandt listened for some movement at the end of the hall, even a groan, to know that their victim was still alive. There was no sound. He looked at the guard outside his cell, who returned his gaze with disinterest. God, he wanted to do something, anything! But all he could do was curl up on his bunk and pray for the poor man at the end of the hall and pray for his own deliverance.

Sometime later, Rembrandt wasn’t sure when, he awoke to the sound of men walking past his cell. He opened his eyes in time to catch a glimpse of a black man being dragged to the stairs. Limp feet thudded on each step as they hauled him away. Rembrandt sat up and listened through the window. Were they taking him to the infirmary? Or, were they hauling him off to a waiting truck for disposal somewhere? The sound of their steps disappeared in the night. He knew he would never know the man’s fate. Rembrandt couldn’t go back to sleep after that.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the week passed by at lightning speed. Quinn tried unsuccessfully to find a job, Wade spent nearly every waking minute either working at the shop or helping out at Elizabeth’s office, and Arturo and Elizabeth found themselves the new media darlings of California. Arturo and Elizabeth met with the writer from _Newsweek_ , and to Arturo’s consternation the reporter kept asking him about his background and his credentials for being a part of this grand social scheme. The reporter had obviously been asking around beforehand and wanted confirmation of Arturo’s early lie to the college dean that he was on staff at a university in Bombay, India. Arturo was only partly successful in deflecting attention away from himself and back to Rembrandt and Elizabeth where it belonged, but all in all the interview went well and they both had hopes that the article would be positive and generate favorable national interest in Rembrandt’s situation.

The promised support began to materialize. Clothes—some used, some new—arrived for the Sliders to wear at public events, contacts with local companies and media outlets appeared, and money began to flow in. Elizabeth and Arturo made it clear to all involved that they had to avoid any possible accusation or suspicion. That meant every penny had to be accounted for and spent only on public group needs. By the time the week ended, the group had more than $4,200 in the bank. A church family also loaned the group their second car—Arturo was somewhat amused to see that it was a 1989 Packard—but since Elizabeth didn’t know how to drive, Arturo ended up with the chauffeur duties.

Even Quinn’s former boss from the grocery store showed up one evening with a truckload of food to donate to the volunteers. He explained to Quinn modestly, “It’s not fresh anymore, but it’s still good. And I couldn’t bear to throw it out like I’m supposed to when I knew where there were a lot of volunteers who could use some free food.” He promised to make deliveries whenever he had the excess stock.

Reluctantly, as the demands of media interest and speaking engagements ate away at her time, Elizabeth was forced to delegate the legal research to a handful of paralegals and pre-bar exam law school graduates, who were overseen by a young lawyer loaned out by one of the more prestigious law firms in town.

As the publicity increased, so did the volume of phone calls to Elizabeth’s office. A steady stream of people began showing up as well—volunteers, reporters, even people who just wanted to watch the show. It was obvious that they needed more room, so Elizabeth arranged to move everything to the parish house of the church where Wade had spoken. The church members were happy to help, and they relinquished the restrictions on Sunday and Tuesday nights, although they soon realized they had no idea what they were in for—the church parking lot became busier than the parking lot at the main train station, and droves of strangers were soon taking over the house. They accepted it stoically, if with a moderate amount of concern about all the wear and tear—and when they were ever going to get the place back.

At first Elizabeth tried to limit the volunteers to people she knew—she agreed with Arturo’s concerns about security and infiltration by OAC moles—but it got so big so fast that she had to rely on the judgment of her friends. However, Arturo did establish a cellular, need-to-know system—for the sensitive matters, people only knew what they needed to complete their assigned tasks, and the only people allowed into the innermost circle were the Sliders, Elizabeth, and Elizabeth’s friends who had some needed expertise. There were three in particular: Lester Meeks, the president of the Bay Area Colored Businessman’s Association; Francine Meeks, Lester’s sister and a prominent leader in the local Baptist community; and Justice Howard, the unofficial liaison between the police and San Francisco’s black community. On the fringe of the inner circle was Leonard Jones of the Family Market. While Quinn grumbled that the only reason he was hanging around was because he had developed a crush on Wade—which Wade downplayed with such a pleased smile that it was hard to take her seriously—the others agreed that he was an enthusiastic and dedicated gopher, and so he stayed.

The group needed a shakedown period to become a cohesive unit. The black folks were suspicious of these mysterious white people coming in and adopting their cause as their own. In particular, they resisted Arturo’s long list of ideas and opinions, and they had no intention of going along if he declared himself the leader. But when it became apparent that he and Elizabeth were a team, and that Elizabeth was the one taking the lead, they eventually accepted the Sliders into the fold.

Although there were a number of stray walk-ins at the church, most of the volunteers came from state and local abolitionist groups and the area churches. Support from neither group was unanimous—some abolition groups resented all the attention given to these upstarts, and a number of churches, suddenly caught up in a controversy not of their making, chose not to take sides. But even within the ranks there was disagreement. Arturo related to the inner group a phone call he received from an area Episcopal priest: “He called to tell me that he and two other priests from local churches disagreed with the Bishop of San Francisco’s public stance of neutrality. They’d discussed it with their church boards, and if we need anything from them, all we have to do is ask—but very discreetly.”

Wade didn’t like the sound of that. “They want to help—but they don’t want anyone to know about it?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “There’s no need to antagonize the boss if they don’t have to.”

“Besides,” Arturo added, “there’s always room for a few trapdoor spiders—people who sit by very quietly, and then close the trap when no one’s expecting it.”

Elizabeth said with appreciation, “I’m never playing chess with you.”

The hard reality of the larger chess game they were playing came home on Thursday night when Elizabeth’s office was firebombed. There were no witnesses, although a few people heard the squealing tires of a passing car around midnight, and there was little hope of an investigation going anywhere. But her office was gutted, and all of her possessions and the records of her other cases gone. The tiny silver linings were that the two other offices on her floor sustained only smoke damage, and the office space below, which had been flooded by the firefighters’ efforts, was empty. But the fact that others had been hurt by this attack on her only saddened Elizabeth further. Arturo immediately arranged for young men from her church to set up a bodyguard squad for her, to her great annoyance, but he would brook no resistance.

With Arturo and two young men from her church in tow, the next morning she regarded the charred, waterlogged remains of her office with a philosophical sadness. “Well, there go the rest of my cases. I’m officially 100 percent yours now.” She glanced at him. “As if I weren’t already.”

Arturo felt a mixture of guilt and terrible dread. They were partly to blame for this. If they hadn’t gotten her involved in their mess, she would still have a quiet practice, a nice little office, and the comfort of anonymity. But now, all that had been traded in for the glare of the media spotlight and twenty-four-hour bodyguard protection...possibly for the rest of her life. He couldn’t forgive himself for helping to do this to her.

She saw his glum expression and patted his arm. “Don’t fret. All our Rembrandt files are safely over at the church. There’s nothing that was in this office that I can’t live without. I’ll be fine.”

He wasn’t so sure.

At lunchtime, Wade and Quinn answered Arturo’s call and went to the parish house. They found him talking with Elizabeth and Lester Meeks. After Lester left for a small side room, Arturo and Elizabeth joined the two. “I’m glad you could make it. We’ve got several situations to discuss.”

For the moment, Quinn had put aside his concern about the possibility of a budding romance between them, and he said to Elizabeth, “I told the others this morning—if you want me, until I find work, I’m available to be part of your muscle squad.”

She smiled at his turn of phrase. “Yes, Max was telling me.”

Wade’s mouth fell open, and Quinn blinked at Elizabeth. “You call him ‘Max’?”

She seemed surprised. “Don’t you, even in private?”

Arturo fixed a firm gaze on her. “No, they don’t.” Both his expression and the resolve in his voice made it clear that it was his idea and he didn’t want to discuss this.

She frowned at him. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Hubrisness, I guess this counts as being out in public.” Wade covered her mouth but couldn’t suppress her giggle. Quinn stared at Elizabeth. Arturo watched all this stoically, if with a bit of annoyance. Elizabeth relented. “I’m sorry. I forgot how special I am.”

“And getting less special by the moment,” he replied without malice. She smiled and patted his arm.

But Quinn couldn’t resist and said with a little more edge than he intended, “So, Max....”

Arturo arched an eyebrow at him and replied with a peppery, “Yes, ‘Q-Ball’?”

Both Wade and Quinn winced at that. He said, “That sounds terrible.”

Arturo didn’t skip a beat. “My point exactly.”

Quinn finally relented. “Sorry, Professor.”

Elizabeth asked Arturo, “‘Cue ball’?”

“That’s what Mr. Brown calls him.”

“‘Cue Ball’? Oh, ‘Q-Ball’! Got it.” She smiled. “I’m really looking forward to meeting this man.” She said to Arturo, “Come on in when you’re done.” She headed for what was now her office in a small room off the parish house’s main room.

The three settled around a work table covered with ribbon, scissors, and safety pins. His grim expression established the tone of the conversation. “We’ve never actually discussed this, and I believe we need to. It’s entirely possible that we won’t be able to free Mr. Brown before the slide date.”

Wade knew where this was going and said indignantly, “I’m not sliding without him.”

Quinn said, “Neither am I.”

“Well, that was easy. We’re in agreement, then. Next, well, this should come as a surprise to no one.” Quinn unconsciously tensed, but he relaxed at Arturo’s words: “We’re broke. One salary can’t pay for the three of us. We’re going to have to give up the apartment tomorrow.”

Neither Quinn nor Wade was surprised. Their shoestring budget had been fraying for a while. Wade asked, “So, where are we going to go?”

“Tentatively, Mr. Mallory and I will be staying here in the parish house. There are some cots upstairs. It’s not glamorous, but I like the idea of having someone on site twenty-four hours a day to discourage a second mysterious midnight fire. As for you, I’ve asked the Joneses of the Family Market if they would be willing to let you stay with them. It will be a bit crowded, but I’m sure you’ll make do just fine.”

Quinn glanced at her. “I’m sure Leonard won’t mind if it’s a little crowded.”

Wade shot him a sour smirk. “Can I help it if men like strong women?”

Arturo ignored them. “They can’t take you tomorrow night, but they can Sunday. You can stay tomorrow night with Alice, the volunteer, and her family. It’s a bit nomadic for you, I’m afraid. Is that all right?”

She nodded. “But why can’t I stay in the parish house, too?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer her. He’d placed her elsewhere because she and Quinn had been bickering so much lately that it had begun to affect the other volunteers. Splitting up these two contentious children was imperative, but there was no point in antagonizing them further by pointing it out. “The accommodations are very basic, and I hope we won’t be here for very long. There’s certainly no reason why all of us should suffer when there’s someplace else for you to go.” She seemed to accept that, and he was grateful. He continued, “Mr. Mallory, we have an assignment for you, if you’d like it. You’ll be gone for about a week, and by then I hope we’ll have someplace a little more permanent to stay.”

“Where am I going?”

“Since this is taking longer than we’d hoped...if this goes down to the wire, we need someone to assess the Whitelaw Headquarters in Merced to see if there’s any way to break Mr. Brown out of there in time to slide.”

“How am I going to get down there?”

“Elizabeth is making the arrangements. She knows people who know people. When they’re ready, they’ll take you down there and you’ll work with them. The key things are to see what kind of security they’ve got—it’s unlikely we can get in there without violence, but we need to know that for certain—and for you not to draw attention to yourselves. If they get any hint that we’re thinking of breaking him out, I’m sure there will be any number of bad repercussions. So, go in, investigate as thoroughly as you can safely, keep a very low profile, and get out.”

Quinn nodded. “Piece of cake.”

“Miss Welles, I’m sorry it’ll be a longer commute for you, but it’s not by much. And Mr. Jones has offered to meet you after work every night.”

Quinn couldn’t resist. “And I’m sure Leonard wouldn’t mind helping out with that, either. You could have Derek hand you off to Leonard every night.”

Wade shot back testily, “Quinn, would you just knock it off? Leonard is a nice guy. Which I can’t really say about you right now.”

Arturo sighed. Getting these two apart couldn’t happen a moment too soon. “Are there any questions?” There were none. “Good. I’ll be in an endless series of meetings this afternoon and evening. Mr. Mallory, would you please pick up Miss Welles at work this evening? The way the schedule looks, I won’t be back until after 10:00.”

“No problem.”

“Good. I’ll see you tonight, then.”

They went their separate ways.

Arturo returned from checking up on the young men camped out on Elizabeth’s front porch as she washed the last of the dinner dishes. “I don’t want them out there,” she said firmly.

“I’m sorry,” he replied with equal firmness.

“Send those boys home. It’s terrible for them to be sitting out there all night on a cold, rainy night for no good reason.”

“I consider your safety a very good reason.”

She dried her hands on a dish towel as he wearily sat on the sofa in the living room. “Look, the OAC doesn’t want to kill me, they just want to scare me. That’s why they bombed my office when no one would be in the building.”

He yawned. “I’m not convinced there are real rules to this game. Besides, you have no idea how thrilled those young men are to be helping you. They’re very honored.”

“Uh-huh. I’m going to go check on them.”

He watched as she took packages of leftovers out the front door. She returned a minute later and went back into the kitchen. “Those boys sure were thrilled. And chilled.” She came out into the living room carrying two glasses of wine.

He reacted with surprise when he saw the glasses. “You got it!” He hadn’t anticipated that she would take seriously his request for a bottle of wine.

She handed him one of the glasses. “You asked me to.”

“But I thought you didn’t ‘do’ this type of thing.”

“I don’t. But I always try to be a good hostess and make my guests comfortable.”

He sipped the wine with appreciation. The vintage was just as good as he remembered it from home. He’d have to limit himself to this glass, however, as he was so tired that more than this would put him straight to sleep. “Do you think the boys out front would like just a little, to help keep them warm?”

“No,” she said as she sat on the sofa. “I sent them home.”

“You _what_?”

“It’s forty degrees out there with a miserable rain. And you don’t understand. The OAC just wanted to scare me. It’s official—I’m scared. That’s the end of round one. Nothing else is going to happen until we get them a little more scared. Until then, I’m perfectly okay.”

He didn’t like this one bit. “You’re an exceptionally stubborn woman.”

“It’s one of my many charms.” She looked at the clock, then got up and turned on the large console radio opposite the sofa.

“You’re not going to cooperate with me at all in this, are you?”

She smiled as she returned to the sofa. “Only when it suits my fancy.” His frown deepened, and she laughed.

He relented and held up his glass for a tired toast. “To the Baptist Council, for canceling. By God, I don’t think I could have survived one more meeting this evening.”

He took a sip as she examined her glass of wine. “You sure I’m going to like this?”

“No. But if you don’t, I’ll drink the rest.”

“Hey, I paid for this!” she teased. “How many other things are you going to have me buy for you?” He chuckled, and she took a hesitant sip of the wine. She swallowed, a pensive look on her face.

“Well?”

“It’s sure not grape juice.” She took another sip. “Maybe I’ll get to like it.” She put the glass on the coffee table.

The radio warmed up and a voice announced the beginning of an hour of dance music. A quiet dance tune began, and Arturo marveled. “You have music programs on the radio?”

“Yes.”

“This is marvelous. It’s just like when I was growing up.” He took a sip of his wine.

“Yeah, me too,” she said with a dubious glance at him.

He read her look and said simply, “Well, they don’t anymore where I live.”

“Too bad for you.”

“Yes, it is.”

They listened to the music contentedly for a while, and then, when a new song began, Elizabeth smiled and set down her wine glass. She stood and reached out a hand to him. “Dance with me?”

A number of conflicting emotions took hold of him. He had wondered and dreaded if a moment like this would ever come, and now that it had, his dread was laced with an unnerving anticipation. He answered mutedly, “I thought Baptists don’t dance.”

“We’re Reformed.” She gestured again for him to join her. “Come on.”

“…I don’t know how to dance.”

She gazed at him skeptically. “And just how hard is slow dancing?” She held out her hand again.

He contemplated her offer, but the terror of everything he knew he shouldn’t be doing possessed him and froze him in place. But when he saw her disappointment and the first step of a retreat back to the sofa, his resolve melted. “Oh, all right. But no blackmail afterwards.”

“I promise.” She drew him to his feet and into the standard dance pose and a gentle swaying to the music. “Hey, you’ve been holding out on me. You’re good at this.”

“Ha.”

She chuckled. The song was obviously one of her favorites, and she was enjoying the music and the dance. He was enjoying them, too, a lot more than he wanted to. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be doing this. But when she quietly slipped from the standard dance posture into a closer slow dance embrace, he doubted he had the strength to resist. He tried his best by saying, “I like this music. What’s it called?”

She stared at him. “You don’t know this song?”

“No.”

She continued to stare at him. Obviously, it was a standard on this Earth, but it meant nothing to him. “It’s called ‘Twilight Indigo.’ They don’t have this in your dimension?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“Then you ought to take it back with you. You’ll make a million.”

He smiled. “I probably will.”

They resumed their dance, and he began to wish this song would never end. He felt her body tense, and he knew something was coming. When it did, he wasn’t prepared for it: “...Max, would you be upset if I said I think I’m falling in love with you?”

Their dance stopped, and he held his breath as she looked at him with a vulnerable and apprehensive gaze.

“...Upset, no. Pleased, terrified, overwhelmed, yes.”

“You know, ‘pleased’ and ‘terrified’ usually don’t go together in healthy people. Unless they’re on a roller coaster.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “I feel like I’ve been on one for the last two weeks.” He regarded her with tenderness and honesty. “Elizabeth, you are one of the most amazing and wonderful women I have ever met. If there were any hope at all of this ending well....”

Her gaze was strong. “Does this have anything to do with my being a negress?”

“No, no.” He was upset that she would even think that for a moment. “That has nothing to do with it. I just don’t want to hurt you when I have to leave.”

He found no sympathy in her gaze. “Look me in the eye and tell me you feel nothing for me.”

“...I can’t.”

“Good. I didn’t think you were a liar. And if you’re worrying about hurting me, it’s too late for that now. And what would be worse, hurting me by leaving when you don’t have a choice, or hurting me by denying what I see in your eyes every time I look at you?”

She had him on the ropes, and when she put her arms around him in a longing embrace, he could only surrender. They stood there for a long moment, and even as he couldn’t bear to loosen his hold, he said with a heavy sigh, “Please don’t ever hug me again. I don’t think I could bear it.”

Her arms still around him, she looked up at him, a playful spark back in her eyes. “If I can’t hug you again, I guess I can’t stop this one. It’s sure going to be awkward walking around like this for the next few weeks. You think anyone’s going to believe we’re Siamese twins?”

In spite of himself, he smiled, then chuckled, then laughed. He delighted in her radiant face. How could he ever have resisted this for so long? He battled the last of his trepidation and kissed her. The kiss lingered, and then turned into a second and third. They both shuddered as the energy around them shifted and suddenly intensified. “Wow,” she said breathlessly. “Did you feel that?”

He nodded slightly. “I believe we just created an M-field.”

“M-field?”

“It’s part of a theoretical branch of physics, but basically...it’s a manifestation of potential becoming reality.”

She gave him a sly smile. “Physics, huh? Back home we used to call it chemistry.”

He smiled, then kissed her again. She responded with a building intensity, and they both knew where this was going. But they needed to talk first. He began awkwardly. “Well, before we...progress further, there are a few things we need to discuss.” She looked at him patiently as he was surprised at how embarrassed he suddenly felt. “...It’s been a very, very long time since I’ve...been with a woman, and....”

“You’ve forgotten what to do?” she said with a teasing sparkle in her eye. “Don’t worry, I’ll remind you. First thing we do is I chase you around the sofa a few times.”

He smiled at that. “I don’t run as fast as I used to.”

“Good. That’ll save us some time. Next, I get down on my knees and beg.”

He suppressed a chuckle. “As I said, it’s been a very long time. I don’t imagine much begging will be required.”

She smiled brightly. “This is great, we’re going to save lots of time.”

His smile lingered on her, but faded as he returned to the real point. “What I meant was...in light of what happened to you...I’m afraid something might happen that would...dredge up memories for you.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “If I start to panic, and I just might, I’ll let you know.”

“Good.” He kissed her on the forehead. But there was one more awkward point. “And the other thing is...well....”

She watched him as he tried to find a casual but respectful way of phrasing it, and then her eyes lit with joy when she realized what he was struggling to say. “You sweet thing. Worrying about that.” She regarded him tenderly. “That’s not a problem. I can’t have children. ...I got too torn up.”

He sighed bitterly. “How angry you must be.”

“Not really. I mean, after Ted died, there wasn’t anyone I wanted to have children with anyway. I didn’t lose something I really wanted.”

He gazed at her with pain and admiration. What an amazing woman she was. He could fall into those strong brown eyes and never resurface. “Oh, dear.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I believe I’m falling very deeply, and heavily, in love with you.”

The faintest of smiles touched her lips. “Then kiss me.” He willingly obeyed.

Quinn awoke early, and he was alarmed when he realized the Professor had never come back to the apartment. He listened to the radio news, dreading that there had been another fire or an attack on the parish house, but there was nothing reported. When Wade padded sleepily into the kitchen and saw him huddled over the radio, she gave him a curious squint.

“The Professor’s not here. I’m afraid something happened. But there was nothing on the news.”

She smiled, then headed for the refrigerator to polish off the last of the cereal and milk.

Her nonchalance annoyed him. “What’s so funny?”

She pulled out the bottle of milk. “You.”

“Why?”

She poured the cereal into a bowl and dowsed it with the last of the milk. “If it were Rembrandt not coming back from an evening out with an attractive woman, you wouldn’t think twice about it. But when it’s the Professor, you can’t handle it.”

Quinn suddenly realized what she was saying and what had probably happened, and his fear exploded into anger. “What the hell is he doing!?” He launched out of his chair. “He’s out of his mind! He doesn’t—we don’t—have time for this!”

Wade fumed and dropped her spoon in the bowl. “Quinn, quit being such a jerk!”

“I’m not being a jerk. The Professor’s the one who’s being a jerk. What the hell is he doing? We’ve got—I mean—this isn’t right!” He stammered uselessly for a few moments. “I sure as hell wouldn’t go running off like that.”

“He’s not running off. Quinn, what is the matter with you? You’re acting like a big three-year-old. Would you please get over it?”

“If thinking about Rembrandt first makes me a big three-year-old, yeah, then I guess I am. But I guess you wouldn’t understand—between Derek and Leonard, you’re kept pretty busy.”

Wade was on her feet and ready for battle. “Quinn Mallory, you are such an idiot sometimes!”

“Hey! I’m the only one around here who isn’t thinking with his hormones!”

“Yeah, right! There is nothing going on with me and Derek or Leonard. But you can’t handle the fact that there are men out there who find me attractive!”

The apartment door opened and they both jumped with surprise. Arturo stepped inside with a frown and closed the door. “I could hear you two from the end of the hall.”

Quinn found his real target and turned on the Professor. “And where the hell have you been all night? Oh, no, don’t bother explaining. We figured it out. Have a good time?”

Arturo recoiled at the broadside, but he quickly gathered himself. “I’m sorry. I should have called.”

Quinn shot back with acid-laced sarcasm, “Yeah, well, I guess you were too busy thinking about Remmy.”

Arturo was nonplussed. “Mr. Mallory, I—”

Quinn’s anger was on a rampage and would not be stopped. “Professor, are you nuts? What the hell’s going to happen when we slide?”

Arturo began to simmer. “I am acutely aware of that problem—”

“And how do you think this looks? We’re trying to get Rembrandt free and change this place for the better. And while Remmy’s rotting in some hellhole, you’re doing the wild thing with his lawyer!”

Arturo was trying hard to contain himself. “Mr. Mallory, this conversation is beneath you. I suggest you stop immediately.”

Before he could stop himself, Quinn said, “And what’s beneath you, Professor?”

After a moment of stunned silence, Arturo’s hand connected with Quinn’s face. It was more of a slap than a punch, but Quinn staggered back from the surprise of the blow and put his hand over the smarting wound. The three stood in breathless shock for several moments. Then, trembling with rage, Arturo said as evenly as he could, “I’m sorry. But if you ever— _ever_ —speak to me that way again....” No one wanted him to finish the sentence. Still shaking, he turned and left the apartment. Wade disappeared into her bedroom, and Quinn was left alone in the kitchen, hurt and confused and furious.


	7. Chapter 7

Wade took care of the business with the landlord before going to work. Quinn wandered around San Francisco and didn’t show up at the parish house until just before midnight. He wasn’t surprised that Arturo was nowhere to be seen. Up on a cot in an upstairs spare room, he found the bag of his possessions that he’d packed when he and Wade cleaned the apartment. She had offered to bring all of their modest belongings to the parish house, and he had taken her up on it and went for a long walk to work off some of his whirlwind of emotions. The hours of wandering hadn’t resolved his mix of frustration, anger, and humiliation.

Next to his bag on the cot sat a note asking him to be in the building at 1:00 p.m., as there would be a major meeting between all the abolitionist leagues. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, and he dropped the note in a wastebasket. He spent a long, tossing night on the too-hard, too-short cot, and he was out of the building as the first volunteers showed up before the early church service. A second long walk only restirred all of his dark judgments.

Reluctantly, but dutifully, Quinn returned after noon. The energy in the parish hall was high as the volunteers milled around, waiting for the arrival of the leaders of all the state’s abolitionist groups. It seemed that everyone wanted to be a part of this, even if they had no particular reason to be there. He saw Wade, who was talking with Leonard Jones and his mother, and he thought about leaving again. But Rembrandt was more important than his pride, and he approached the group slowly.

When Wade saw his troubled expression, she didn’t need an explanation of his past twenty-four hours. “Hi,” she said simply.

“Hi.”

Mrs. Jones could see the two needed to talk and found an excuse to pull the reluctant Leonard away.

Quinn looked around at the excited crowd. “I guess this is pretty big, huh?”

“Nothing like it’s ever happened on this Earth before. With luck, Elizabeth can get everyone to start working together.” He reacted mutedly to the mention of her name, and Wade couldn’t resist. “How’s your face?”

He wasn’t ready for complete contrition yet and eyed her. “Still attached.”

She didn’t take the bait. She said softly, “In need of a shave, too.”

“Well, I guess room service forgot to put out the razor this morning.”

“They probably knew you should be kept away from sharp objects.”

He wasn’t in the mood for this, but he let it pass. “I just want to get this over with.”

There was a stir in the animated crowd, and then some applause as Elizabeth and Arturo entered the hall. Arturo looked around for Wade and Quinn, but when he saw Quinn turn away, he bristled and followed Elizabeth to the far end of the hall where tables were set up for the meeting. Wade directed an angry sigh towards Quinn. “I wish you’d get over it.”

“Tell that to him.”

Elizabeth approached them through the crowd. “Good morning! Isn’t this exciting? We’re standing hip-deep in history here.”

Wade said, “It’s really great,” but Quinn only offered a non-committal nod.

Elizabeth regarded him for a moment, then said, “Quinn, may I talk with you for just a moment?”

Quinn knew he was in for an earful, but he reluctantly nodded and followed her into her makeshift office. He braced himself, but she spoke mildly: “I understand you and Max had quite an argument yesterday.”

“Yeah.”

“He was very upset.”

“Yeah, well, I guess he could have gotten pretty mad.”

“Well, not so much mad. More hurt. He wouldn’t tell me all of it, but it really bothered him.” Quinn was a little surprised that the Professor hadn’t roasted him in glowing detail. “But I think I figured it out.” He geared up for the “mind your own business” lecture, but once again he was wrong. “Quinn, have you ever lost someone you loved?”

Her statement caught him off guard. “Well, my dad died when I was twelve...but no, not the way you mean.”

She considered that. “Did your mother ever remarry?”

“No.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “Quinn, please hear me out, friend to friend. When you lose someone young, especially so fast you can’t even say goodbye, something happens to you. Part of you dies with them. You close off. You don’t want to go on, because it feels disloyal. But life is ruthless. It keeps going, even when you don’t want it to. That’s why there’s so much survivor guilt. I heard a psychiatrist say once it’s going to take three or four generations to get over the survivor guilt from the war. It’s hard. But when it’s time to let go, you have to. You have to or you die. And you have to let other people let go, too. You have to let them do what they need to do.”

“And what does this have to do with anything?”

“You really hit him hard yesterday.”

Quinn rubbed the still-tender spot on his cheek. “I think you got that backwards.”

“You’ll never know how badly he feels about that. But you know that’s not what I’m talking about.”

He admitted slowly, “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about life. And how terrifying it is when it claims you again. When something so right comes along that it knocks you over, and even if everything else around it is wrong, you can’t walk away from it.”

He didn’t want to hear this, and he shifted uncomfortably.

“Quinn, I know you’re upset. I know it’s frustrating that you can’t help Rembrandt. You feel so helpless. And I know you’ve got to be thinking we’re being selfish, we’re abandoning him. We’re not. Everything in my life is now focused on getting Rembrandt out of there. And please don’t take out your frustrations on us. We’re not the problem. We’re part of the solution. It may not make sense from your point of view right now, but I know that Max and I are much stronger together than we are apart. He’s...he’s very good for me. I don’t understand some of it. But I do know that he’s helping me...helping me heal some things from my past.

“Quinn, I didn’t mean to come between friends. And I want you to know I’m the one who forced the issue.” She smiled slightly. “He kept trying to get out of it, but I wouldn’t let him. So, if you’re going to blame someone, blame me, not him.” She said quietly, “But I hope instead you’ll forgive him, and me, too. He and I have had enough trouble forgiving ourselves.” She put a gentle hand on his arm. “And I hope you really understand about when to let go and when to hold on, so, someday, if your mother ever remarries, you’ll be able to forgive her as well.” She patted his arm, then returned to the bustle outside, leaving him alone with a lot of ideas he didn’t want to look at.

When Quinn finally emerged from the office a few minutes later, he was a humbled man. Soul-searching is never easy, and when as a result you realize that you’ve let a situation bring out the absolute worst in you, it can be especially bitter. He stood to the side and waited for Arturo to finish a conversation with one of the aides. He looked at his former professor with new eyes. He was a man, like any other. Even after all these years, he still mourned for his wife. Quinn was ashamed that he’d denied Arturo his humanity, even if only in his thoughts. ...And when had he turned Arturo into a surrogate father? When had he started imposing the same impossible standards on him that he’d put on his mother? Up until five minutes ago, he would have laughed out loud at anyone who tried to suggest he’d done these things. But, seeing Arturo wrap up his talk with the aide, he knew now it was true. He didn’t want to believe it. And he certainly wasn’t going to admit it to anyone, least of all the Professor. But now that Elizabeth had opened his eyes, he could see a lot of things—a lot more than he wanted to face at the moment—much too clearly.

Quinn’s breast-beating ended as the aide walked away. He approached the Professor slowly, contritely. Arturo stiffened at the sight of him, which made him feel even worse. “Professor...I want to apologize. I was really out of line yesterday. I’m sorry.”

He could see the Professor wanting to agree with him wholeheartedly, then deciding against it. “Apology accepted,” he said, a little uncomfortably. “I overreacted as well.”

“I guess we kinda pushed each other’s buttons, huh?”

“...In a manner of speaking.”

They regarded each other for a long moment, and then Quinn extended his hand. Arturo gratefully accepted it.

Wade stood next to Elizabeth as she watched the two seal their truce. “What did you say to him?” she said in amazement.

Elizabeth smiled as she saw them. “I just gave him a little perspective.”

The last of the abolitionist leaders arrived, and everyone started gravitating towards the conference tables. Elizabeth caught Arturo’s attention and nodded significantly to him. He acknowledged her signal. Quinn noticed that he wasn’t heading for the meeting. “Aren’t you going?”

“First things first. I need to chat with you and Miss Welles briefly.” Arturo gestured for Wade to join them, and they sat down at a freshly abandoned table. “Mr. Mallory, the people who’ll take you to Merced are here. You’ll need to be ready to go when the meeting breaks up.”

Quinn wasn’t expecting to leave so abruptly, but he could sense Arturo’s urgency and nodded.

“The situation isn’t as simple as we first anticipated. Elizabeth is concerned about how quietly the Whitelaw Land Company seems to be taking all of this. They’ve made no public statements whatsoever. She says that’s very unlike them in such public matters. Either they’re so supremely arrogant that they think they can ride this out...or, more likely, something’s afoot. It’s possible that this will be more dangerous than we had hoped.”

“I can take care of myself.”

Arturo said quietly, “I seem to recall Mr. Brown saying those very same words not long ago.” Quinn and Wade reacted mutedly. “If you’re still going, please be ready. Elizabeth will introduce you.”

Quinn nodded. “I’m ready when they are.”

The meeting lasted an hour and a half, and it was mostly a chance for everyone to get to know one another, although the group did decide on a new name to denote its expanded scope—the Freedom League. By the time the conclave ended, a few reporters had gathered outside the parish house and were hoping for some word of what had happened. Everyone wanted Elizabeth, but she stepped away from the limelight for a moment to find Quinn. “Over there,” she said, nodding towards a couple of men waiting by the back door. “That’s Bobby and Winter. They’re your ride.” He thought they looked more like street brawlers than abolitionists. “Be careful, Quinn. You’re going into dangerous territory. Listen to those two, and do whatever they say.”

“Okay.”

Elizabeth left to go meet the press, and Quinn went to say goodbye to Wade. He found her chatting with Leonard, who was fawning over her as only a lovestruck young man can do. Quinn frowned, and when Wade turned towards him, he couldn’t miss the displeased expression on Leonard’s face. “I’m off. See you in a week.”

“Be safe.”

He glanced at Leonard as he said to her, “Take care of yourself, too.”

Wade hadn’t missed his look, and shook her head. She sighed. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

“Not if I see you first,” he quipped, then headed for the back door. Without a word, the two men nodded and led the way to a dilapidated pickup truck. They left without ceremony.

Escorted by Leonard, Wade arrived at the Family Market in the middle of the afternoon. He took her upstairs to the family’s living quarters, where Mrs. Jones marveled at the scarcity of Wade’s possessions—she had little more than a few clothes and a toothbrush—and showed her to the room they’d prepared for her. It was obviously Leonard’s room, and when she asked him were he was staying, his mother said he would be sleeping on the living room sofa. Wade protested, saying she didn’t want to inconvenience anyone and she should be the one on the sofa, but Mrs. Jones would hear none of it. Wade could tell Leonard secretly liked the idea of her staying in his room, and seeing the boyish twinkle of delight in his eye silenced the last of her objections. Mrs. Jones introduced Wade to her two young daughters, 6-year-old Anita and 8-year-old Mildred, who giggled shyly and hid behind their mother when Wade knelt to greet them.

Leonard had to go down to the store to begin his shift behind the register. It was one of Wade’s days off, so she hung up her clothes and made herself comfortable in the spare but tidy room. She wondered how Leonard fit his long, lanky frame into the double bed, and she decided he either stuck his feet out the bottom or slept diagonally. She smiled, happy that she wouldn’t have this problem. She looked out the large window that overlooked the street. She opened the window and sat down on the bench under the window, leaning on the sill. The earlier showers had given way to a beautiful afternoon, and she appreciated the warmth of the sun on her face. Her thoughts turned to Rembrandt, and she grew wistful. She hoped he was safe, and as happy as he could be under whatever his circumstances were. This not knowing how he was made the whole nightmare ten times worse. She thought about Quinn, and wondered where he was right now. She hoped he could find out about Rembrandt or learn something they could use to help him. She looked over the small city and sighed. Mostly, she just wanted everyone to come back safely.

On the way to Merced, Quinn learned only a little about his companions. But he figured out enough to know that they were well-armed, deadly serious and probably very dangerous. He was glad they were on his side, and he hoped they knew he was on theirs.

Taking a roundabout route on muddy back roads—there seemed to be no interstate system or major highways on this Earth—they arrived at a rundown farm house in the middle of the flat anonymity of the San Joaquin Valley just after sunset. Even though he couldn’t have identified anything in this vast farm terrain with few landmarks, he’d had to wear a blindfold for the last half hour of the journey. He was taken inside a house, where they finally removed his blindfold. He saw three black men sitting at the cleared dining room table. He was presented to them and not invited to sit. The men were as deadly serious as Bobby and Winter. A man of forty-five introduced himself as Ham, and he identified the other younger men as Tom and Jubal. He eyed Quinn with suspicion and disdain. “Do you know who we are?”

“No.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. It’s safer for all of us. The OAC doesn’t know we exist. If they did, this valley would run red with blood. Ours to start, theirs to finish.” Quinn tried not to react. “I have no idea why a white boy’s tryin’ so hard to save a colored man.”

“Because he’s my friend.”

“So you say. But if we find out you’re settin’ us up for somethin’, we’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

Quinn fought a shudder. “Yes.”

“Good. And if you do somethin’ stupid that might expose us, we’ll leave you. You mean nuthin’ to us. We got stuff to do, and it sure in hell ain’t got nuthin’ to do with you. If anything you do puts us in danger, you’ll be dead and we won’t even remember your face. You got that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Don’t forget it.” He glanced at Jubal on his left. “Jubal’s going to be the one who looks after you. And watches you. Any questions, you ask him. Any problems, you talk to him. And you do _everything_ he says. These Whitelaw boys play for keeps. They’ve already killed two of our people. I ain’t gonna let them kill no more. Not for you, not for your friend, not for no one. So, you do what Jubal says. Or you’re goin’ turn up in an irrigation ditch. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right.” He nodded to Jubal, who headed for the door. Bobby and Winter soon had Quinn’s blindfold on him again, and he was led away into the night.

The dilapidated pickup truck was heading through the thick night down an unpaved road. Jubal was driving and Winter was in the passenger seat, and Quinn was jammed between them. Winter had said this was so “they could keep an eye on him,” but he suspected it was also so he’d understand their low opinion of him and know that any inconvenience during this stay would be his, not theirs. He wasn’t sure where they were going, but he guessed it was a safe house of sorts where he’d be spending that night. They had removed his blindfold, as the night itself provided all the cover they needed. It was heavily overcast, and, in this underdeveloped valley, there were few lights. The world beyond the truck’s dull headlights was a black morass.

They bumped down the road until suddenly the fog-wrapped beams of bright flashlights appeared fifty yards ahead of them. The lights calibrated on the truck, and they shielded their eyes from the glare directed at their faces. From the reactions around him, Quinn realized this wasn’t part of the plan. Jubal slammed on the breaks, and within moments the truck was surrounded by five white men carrying shotguns and rifles.

One member of the blockade stepped up to the driver’s door, and, with trembling hands, Jubal rolled down the window. The man cradled an impressive shotgun against his shoulder. He was easygoing, confident, apparently a veteran of this unofficial policing. Danger crackled in the thick air. With an eerie smile, the man said to Quinn, “‘Evening.”

“Good evening,” Quinn returned.

The man sized up the scene inside the truck. “May I ask what you’re doing out here at this time of night?”

Quinn could feel the fear of his two companions. He knew nothing about this area, and yet it seemed to be his place to talk with these men. If Jubal or Winter did the talking with a white man in their truck, they’d all probably be dead within minutes. “Since when is it a crime to drive down a public road?”

The man smirked. “It isn’t. Where are you going?”

Quinn had no idea what to say. “Well, as if it weren’t obvious, we’re lost.”

The man was enjoying playing this game. “Where are you from?”

“Woodlawn,” Quinn said, hoping there was one on this Earth. “We’re trying to get to....” His mind went blank. He looked at Jubal. “What’s the name of that highway?”

Jubal stammered a moment, then said, “Highway 60.”

The man outside the truck chuckled. “You are lost. I’ll give you directions...if you tell me why you’re sitting in the middle.”

Quinn could see the other men lean in attentively. He did look like a prisoner. Heck, he was one. His mouth went dry. He could feel the two men beside him tense, ready to go down fighting. Then, seeing a cowboy hat worn by one of the blockaders triggered a memory of a song he’d heard on the radio once. He pointed at Jubal. “He does the work of driving.” He pointed at Winter. “And he has to get out to open and close the gates. My dad always told me a real cowboy rides in the middle.”

The man looked at him hard, then erupted in rough peals of laughter. “Shee-ooot! I gotta remember that one!” The other men joined in the laughter. He gave Quinn directions to Highway 60, and only then did Quinn feel the men beside him unkink a notch.

The man stepped back to signal the truck to pass through, but Quinn didn’t want to let this opportunity pass. “Tell me—why are you out like this? Has something happened? Do we need to be careful?”

“You don’t know where you are, do you? This is Whitelaw country. There are enemies everywhere. Any white person needs to be careful after dark around here. Especially these days.”

Quinn wanted to ask more, but he didn’t want to push it and nodded sympathetically. “Thanks for the directions.” Jubal hit the gas, and they were off into the night.

A mile down the road, Jubal turned the truck down a rutted lane that eventually led to another dilapidated farm house. He stopped the truck and turned off the ignition with shaking hands. In a trembling voice, he said, “That’s how two of our people got killed last month.”

Winter soothed the agitated driver. From their resemblance and the way they acted around each other, Quinn guessed they might be brothers. Winter looked at Quinn. The anger and mistrust were gone, but he was annoyed. “Why’d you say Woodlawn? Now they’ve seen our truck. If they see it again, they’re gonna be suspicious.”

“Sorry. I wanted someplace far enough away that they wouldn’t think they should know us.”

Winter was obviously coming down from his own adrenaline rush of fear and took another few moments to gather himself. “I guess,” he said, opening the door. “You were good back there. You were real good.” He got out of the truck, and Jubal got out and headed for the house. Quinn followed them.

He was escorted to a bedroom that was nothing more than a mattress on the floor and a kerosene lamp beside it. Jubal told him they’d be up early, so he should get as much rest as he could. Even though Jubal was still as business-like as usual, he had softened somewhat. Quinn figured he’d improved his standing with them. They weren’t all friends, but at least he wasn’t their semi-prisoner anymore. Jubal gave him some food, then left for the night. Quinn wolfed down the jerky and cornbread, and then stretched out on the mattress. Within minutes, he was sound asleep.

Wade and Arturo were folding flyers in the parish hall on Monday morning when the phone call came. It was for Elizabeth, who took it in her office. When she emerged ten minutes later, she looked grim. “That was Leslie over at Channel 6,” she said to Arturo. “We need to go over there. I think it’s started.”

“What?”

“She got some film this morning. Dropped off anonymously. She wants us to look at it.”

Wade and Justice Howard insisted on going along, and soon the four were crammed into a small editing bay at the TV station looking over the shoulder of the reporter who’d called Elizabeth.

“When I found this on my desk,” Leslie said, “I didn’t think anything of it. But when I saw it, I called the police to confirm if it had happened. It had.”

She started up the footage on the Moviola, and the four leaned in to see the image on the tiny viewing screen. The small speakers erupted with the sound of destruction and chaos as a nighttime image whirled around dizzyingly. Finally, it settled on the trashed storefront of a small mom and pop convenience store. Figures of black men were running out of the store, carrying stolen items and whooping in triumph. An elderly white couple who were undoubtedly the mom and pop of the store cowered beneath a black man who held a machete over their heads. Suddenly, a black man appeared in the middle of the frame. He shouted defiantly at the camera, “California, this is your wake-up call! We’re the African Freedom Fighters. We demand the immediate release of Rembrandt Brown and all coloreds who’ve been taken off the streets.” In the background, men continued to run past with looted bounty from the store.

One black man stopped briefly behind the speaker and, with a war cry, shook a looted liquor bottle in the air. “If we don’t get what we want, we’re going to burn your cities down until we get it. Go ahead, lock your doors—we’ll jus’ burn your houses down!”

The camera pitched back to the store, where several men were tossing torches through the open door. When the elderly man tried to stop them, he was clubbed to the ground. The spokesman appeared in front of the camera again. “Remember—give us Rembrandt Brown. Or you’ll be next!” The film ended, and the small viewing screen flickered white.

The group looked at each other in horror. This was a disaster. Wade muttered, “They can’t be part of the Freedom League.”

Elizabeth shook her head. “No, this is the OAC. It’s their style to play on public opinion behind the scenes. They want to discredit us without getting their hands dirty.”

Leslie said, “If I got it, you can guarantee every other TV station got the film, too. It’s going to start airing on this evening’s news all over California. And the attack has probably been reported on the radio news already.”

Leslie left to let the four decide what to do. Their few options were to ignore the attack and go about their usual business; denounce the attack via press releases and try to stay out of the line of fire; or, potentially the best but definitely the riskiest, hold a press conference to denounce the attack.

They really had no choice. Reluctantly, Elizabeth decided to have a press conference at 2:00 p.m. Leslie agreed to let them hold it at Channel 6. Elizabeth knew it was going to be a huge gamble. She would as easily be destroyed as succeed. She hoped nothing would happen between then and 2:00 p.m. to make things worse.

But disaster attracts disaster, and the carefully orchestrated attack on Elizabeth and the Freedom League was in full swing. On newsstands all over town, right next to the _Newsweek_ issue that in its middle pages contained a fairly evenhanded report on the efforts to free Rembrandt, was the other San Francisco daily newspaper, the _Sentinel_ , with a banner headline descrying Elizabeth’s credentials to run a moral crusade. The article included everything from scurrilous slander about Elizabeth’s abilities as a lawyer to anonymous indignation that she was “living in sin” with her white lieutenant. Arturo himself came under considerable attack, as his lie about the university in Bombay was uncovered and his very identity was questioned. Arturo exploded in a ten-minute tirade that did nothing to soothe the already frayed nerves around him. After he finally managed to calm down, he and Elizabeth had a quick private strategy session. “First thing first,” he said, “I’ll move into the parish house.”

“No,” she said firmly. “They know you’re the guiding force behind the movement. And they know you and I are greater than the sum of the parts and want to split us up. No. You’re not going anywhere.”

“Do you want me at the press conference?”

“Of course! I need you there. Besides, it’ll look mighty suspicious if you hide out now. Like it or not, you’ve got to face the music, too.”

“I could be a liability.”

“You’re as much a part of this as I am. More, even, as you’re the one with all the clever ideas.”

“Clever,” he sighed. “Maybe too clever.”

She smiled tenderly and put a hand on his cheek. “You’ll do fine. And I need you there to give me strength. ...And if worse comes to worse, I can have you pull the fire alarm if the questions get nasty.”

The press conference went about as badly as Elizabeth feared. She made her public statement to the energized group of two dozen reporters that the so-called “African Freedom Fighters” were a diversion from the real efforts of the bona fide, peaceful organizations working for justice. The questions came thick and fast after that, and while Elizabeth managed to hold her own and refute the lies in the newspaper article, she had to resort to the occasional sidestepping when it came to her relationship with Arturo. He stood in the background with Wade, watching silently and hoping that she had the strength to get through this.

Zero hour on the firing line came when a reporter from one of the national television networks called out: “Professor Arturo, I’d like to ask you a few questions if I could.” Wade gave his hand a quick squeeze for luck as Elizabeth stepped aside and let him assume the bull’s eye position behind the podium. “The _Newsweek_ article dubbed you ‘Freedom’s Lion.’”

“Yes, well, that was very flattering of them.”

“But you’re still a great mystery. Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I am simply a man who wants his friend returned to the freedom he deserves.”

Another reporter chimed in, “Mr. Arturo, do you have any comment on the _Sentinel_ article?”

“Yes. It’s an affront to honest journalists everywhere.”

Another reporter clamored, “So you’re saying it’s a bunch of lies? You’re claiming Elizabeth Speas isn’t your mistress?”

The turn of phrase was such a non sequitur that Arturo could only stammer “ _‘Mistress’!?_ ”

“Yeah, mistress. You are shacked up together. We’ve all seen the pictures of you coming out of her house first thing in the morning.”

Arturo glared at the reporter. That the OAC had them under photo surveillance shouldn’t have surprised him, but in the rush of the moment it caught him off-balance. “My relationship with Ms. Speas is no one’s business but our own.”

The man shot back, “Are you challenging my right to ask that question?”

There was a rabid glint in the reporter’s eyes that betrayed his overeagerness to pursue that point. If he wanted to stir up a little xenophobia, Arturo wasn’t going to cooperate. He gathered himself and said, “No, I’m not. The Constitution guarantees your right to ask it. I’m merely questioning your _need_ to ask it. It has no relevance whatsoever to the present situation.”

A fourth reporter asked, “Are you or are you not on the faculty of the Lapad University in Bombay as you claimed while visiting the campus of California University last month?”

“I am not on the faculty there.”

“Do you deny that you said you were?”

“I did say I was.”

“Why did you lie?”

“Because I wanted to speak with the science chairman as a peer. And as there had been a number of combative incidents on the campus recently, I didn’t want to antagonize him by making him think I was some sort of spy. It was a simple little white lie to put him at ease. And, obviously, it was a mistake.”

Several reporters fired off questions at once, but the one he heard was, “Are you lying about your name, too? The immigration service can find no record of you.”

“No, my name is Maximillian Arturo. However, I can’t speak for the accuracy of the immigration service records.”

The same reporter asked, “We did some digging. The only possible match we could find to your name, your age, and your country of origin is a Maximillian Arturo who was reported killed at the age of ten in the Bristol fire storm bombings of 1952. Do you want us to believe that you’re that boy and you didn’t die in the war?”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What I want you to understand is that I am not the point. I am a man who is simply trying to help free a friend from a dangerously antiquated legal and social system. Mr. Rembrandt Brown, and the thousands of people like him, are the point.” He was ready to finish that off with an insult directed towards the reporter’s ability to comprehend the issue, but he kept it in check.

An older reporter whom Arturo recognized from his trip to the _Tribune_ newsroom asked, “Mr. Arturo, why would you care what happens in America? Regardless of who you really are, you’re obviously a foreigner. What makes you not just some outside, troublemaking agitator that you wanted to assure Chairman Edwards you weren’t?”

Several arguments came to him, but most involved berating these people for not pulling their own weight in the world, and he quickly abandoned them. He gathered his thoughts for a moment. “I’ve lived in the United States for a very long time, and it’s been my experience that Americans always strive to do the right thing. Even when they don’t know what that is, they still yearn for it.

“In your history, the Great Reconciliator, John Pennefield, tried to find a peaceful solution to the slavery issue by pointing out to the non-slave states that many of the Founding Fathers were themselves slave owners and therefore they had an inherent perception of a difference between white Americans and black Americans, and it was not the place of subsequent generations to question them.

“As logical as that sounds, he missed one very important issue.” He gestured towards the crowd of reporters. “How many of you who are parents want to see your children do better than you did? It’s a basic human instinct. I believe the American Founding Fathers had this instinct as well. They knew they were men of their times, and that they were unable to live up to the lofty ideals upon which they based the very concept of this country. But they laid the groundwork so successive generations, who would be born and raised in a country where they could take freedom for granted, could move beyond where they were and continue to strive towards those ideals. Unfortunately, it’s easy to rest on past laurels, and this country’s become a bit stuck.” He regarded them sincerely. “You have the tremendous potential to create a country of a greatness that this world has never seen. A country based on fair play, equality, equal opportunities, and the highest ideals to which humans can aspire. Your Founding Fathers set a very high goal for you, but it’s not unattainable. It will require more work than you can possibly imagine, but in the long run, it will be more than worth it.” Wade and Elizabeth were beaming proudly at him, but most of the reporters weren’t so favorably impressed.

One smirking reporter who was holding up a tape recorder microphone asked, “So, you think slavery was a mistake?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And you want us to plunge into economic chaos just to satisfy your own wishes.”

Arturo had to catch himself before something unfortunate came out of his mouth. “Sir, this country is heading for civil war. Which would be worse—a difficult but peaceful transition to a fair and open society, or bloody chaos on the streets?”

“You mean like the African Freedom Fighters,” the reporter said with an insinuating snarl.

Arturo was developing a very strong dislike for this man. “Ruse that they are, they are a symptom of the problem, not the problem itself. And if you can’t tell the difference between an effect and a cause....” He had to rein himself in again. “...Perhaps you should consider taking a course in logic.”

A few members of the press corps chuckled, and the reporter frowned. “It’s a known fact that we did the negroes a favor by taking them out of Africa and giving them some civilization. Have you ever been to Africa? It’s a hell on earth.”

Arturo was becoming genuinely annoyed. “You, sir, have done no favors. Only the Divine is able to operate in the realm of such irony. As for this being a ‘fact,’ I highly recommend that you take that course in logic. Never confuse fact with opinion. They are two entirely different things. Just because I think you’re an idiot doesn’t mean you are one. Although your questions are giving me every indication that I’m right.”

Arturo’s eloquent indignation was winning some admirers, but it was also offering temptation to others. A freckle-faced young man who looked like he was fresh out of high school called out, “Hey, Arturo, is she good in bed? I hear colored women can be real tigresses.”

There were a few chuckles, and everyone watched Elizabeth and Arturo for their reactions. She regarded the man with a steadfast, strained forbearance, while he did a slow burn, and then said with contained fury, “Young man, I would be very happy to discuss with you love in all of its many manifestations, but from your question I gather you’ve never experienced it personally—and therefore you wouldn’t understand what I was saying.”

There were some laughs and an undercurrent of “ooohs” in response to the scathing point scored as Arturo continued to glare at the young man, who flushed red with embarrassment.

Arturo stated, “I believe this has degenerated to the point of sufficient absurdity to draw it to a close. We have work to do. And so do you.” He gave the reporters a brusque nod, and he gestured for Elizabeth and Wade to precede him off the dais.

Once safely out of the press conference room, the three let out a huge collective sigh and Arturo leaned against the hallway wall. “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to lose control like that.”

Elizabeth patted his arm. “Next time I’ll bring a leash. I sure hope most of them got the point.”

They stood in silence. At this moment, that was the only hope they had left.


	8. Chapter 8

Quinn and Jubal shared some cornbread and raw turnips as they sat in the pickup truck near a Whitelaw property line fence. Winter had left before dawn, convinced that Quinn didn’t need two keepers. Jubal had spent the day driving Quinn around the area, showing him that the perimeter of the Whitelaw Land Company’s Merced facility was unbreachable. Inside the fence was at least a mile of empty buffer land. Nothing of any consequence was visible from the outside. The fence itself looked electrified. With a heavy gauge metal in the chain link fence, and no cover for probably a mile, here was no way they could get inside undetected.

Quinn took a bite out of a turnip. He loathed turnips, but he was hungry enough at the end of this long day that he would have eaten just about anything. “Okay. So, we can’t break in. Could I get in, like, being a delivery person?”

Jubal shook his head. “They pick up everything in town themselves. No one who isn’t an employee gets through the front gates.”

Quinn tried to think up a plan for some other way to get inside, from faking a heart attack at the front gate to landing a small airplane inside and saying it was engine trouble. The second idea might work...if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t know how to fly. And he didn’t have a plane.

He looked at the setting sun. “I’d at least like to know that Rembrandt’s in there, and he’s okay. Tomorrow can we go all the way around the perimeter to see if we can see anyone inside at all?”

Jubal stared at him. “Do you know how many hundreds of miles the perimeter is?”

Quinn shrugged. “We can start early.”

Jubal shook his head. “As long as you’re payin’ for the gas, sure, why not?”

Quinn dug the last of his cash from his pocket and gave it to Jubal. “How far will that get me?”

Jubal wasn’t impressed. “A quarter of the way around. If we have a tail wind.”

“Well, maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll rain so much I can paddle the truck the rest of the way around.”

Jubal scoffed, then laughed. “That I’d pay to see!”

Quinn laughed, and they split the last piece of cornbread.

The African Freedom Fighters struck again during the night. They torched a white church that had declared its neutrality, and they beat and robbed whites who were shopping downtown. The attacks got a great deal of press coverage, and, first thing in the morning, the inner circle of the Freedom League went into high gear on various tasks to try to stop them: Wade went to Channel 6 and studied the filmed first attack, frame by frame; Justice Howard used every connection he had with the police to find out if there was any evidence that might identify the men; Francine and Lester Meeks talked with everyone in the black business and religious communities to search for leads; and Elizabeth, with Arturo by her side, spoke with all the abolitionist leaders she could, trying to hold the newborn Freedom League together.

The meeting with the board of the Colored Freemen Society went especially badly. The six men launched into a vitriolic attack on Arturo the moment they saw him. They accused him of being the cause of all their problems—everything had been tolerable before he came along and stirred things up. The chairman of the group fumed, “It’s mighty easy for a white man to come in here and play the social reformer. But this is no game—these are our lives! Our lives that’re now in danger because of you rocking the boat!”

Arturo countered as diplomatically as he could, “If the boat is about to plunge over a waterfall, perhaps rocking it is the only way to survive.”

The chairman shot back, “That’s very easy for you to say, a white man and a foreigner. It’s not your life you’re putting in danger. It’s not your family that’s hiding behind locked doors at night because of white gangs roaming the streets, looking for some payback.”

Arturo tried to find the words to placate them, but they left in an indignant huff as the chairman told Elizabeth he was going to recommend to the membership that they withdraw from the Freedom League.

Before they could wallow in their defeat, Alice hung up the phone and caught Elizabeth’s attention. “Wade called. She said get down to Channel 6 ASAP. She said she found something—it’s not a lot, but it’s something.”

All the inner circle members gathered at the station and found an energized Wade. She assembled them in a viewing room, a projector at the ready. “Okay, like I said, it’s not definitive proof of anything, but it’s good.” She nodded to Leslie, who turned on the projector. The silent images of the first attack filled the screen. The man who’d shouted the demands at the camera was talking, and, as the looter with the liquor bottle came up behind him, the film froze when Leslie stopped the projector. The image dimmed to half power as Leslie turned down the projector’s bulb to keep the film from melting. “Okay,” Wade said, “look at the man in the background. More precisely, look at his hair.”

The image was dark, and the group squinted at the man. Suddenly Francine Meeks let out a gasp. “Look at that! It’s a wig!” Sure enough, the looter in the background was wearing a wig, and a badly fitting one at that, as one of his sideburns curled away from his face.

“Look at his features, “Wade said. “He’s white. He’s made up to look like a black man.”

The others marveled at the image. Lester said, “So, what good does that do us? It doesn’t prove a thing. Except that he’s white.”

“I know,” Leslie replied. “That’s why I warned Wade to keep this low-key.”

Wade added, “After all, he could just be someone who’s trying to show his solidarity with his black brothers.” All the others except Arturo scowled at her strange words.

Leslie continued, “But what it does prove is these men are careless. They don’t think photographic evidence can be used against them. There’s no way this man should have gotten anywhere close to the camera. But he did, and they still released it.”

Wade concluded, “That means they’re careless. Or arrogant. Or both. We’ve found their Achilles heel.”

The debate began. Seeing the OAC’s weakness and knowing how to exploit it were two different things. Francine Meeks wanted to confront the OAC with the film and use it as leverage; Lester Meeks wanted to try to figure out who the white man was; Justice Howard wanted the police to study the footage and advise them on how best to use it.

Wade didn’t listen to the debate. She was deep in thought, trying to put all the pieces together. Finally, she interrupted a disagreement between Lester and Justice. “Okay, look. I know what we need to do.” The arguers looked at her impatiently. “We need to catch them in the act. And we need to work with the police.”

Lester scoffed. “You think the police want to help? Help the OAC, yeah!”

“No, not all of them.” She looked at Justice. “Didn’t you say yesterday you’d been approached by a police lieutenant who wanted to work out a way to keep the peace? If we can get interracial citizen patrols to travel around with police officers looking for the troublemakers, we might be able to catch some and unmask them and get the whole thing on video.”

Francine frowned. “What’s video?”

“Uh,” Wade corrected herself, “I mean, on film. Take around movie cameras. A picture’s worth a thousand words. They tried it with their film; we can do the same thing, only we’ll do it one better. It’s one thing to have a police officer and a bunch of us say they’re bogus—but pictures, and getting the whole thing on film, that’s a very different story. The OAC will have a tough time trying to explain that.” She looked at Arturo. “ _Cops_ meets the Guardian Angels.”

He nodded with approval. “That’s utterly brilliant, Miss Welles.”

“Wait, wait,” Lester interrupted. “That’s like finding a needle in a haystack. That could take months.”

“No,” Wade said, “they’re trying to scare the maximum number of people in the shortest amount of time, so they’re moving as fast as they can and taking big risks. Besides, we’ve got the element of surprise. This idea’s so radical, they can’t possibly anticipate it. I mean, these guys think we’re stupid enough not to notice some white goon in black greasepaint and a bad wig visible on camera.”

Arturo commented, “Pride goeth before a fall.”

“And we can use their pride against them. We can even try to speed things up and give them a couple of nice, juicy targets so they’ll take the bait.”

The others began to realize what she was saying, and they had their first much-needed glimmer of hope.

Rembrandt had gotten used to the slow rhythm of his interminable days in solitary confinement, and he’d even gotten used to the lingering head cold that the damp chill of the cell had given him and wouldn’t let him shake. He’d become so removed from the outside world that when three guards with guns appeared without warning at his cell door one morning, he panicked. Without a word they collared him and took him up the stairs. Rembrandt prayed silently the whole way, and he was caught off-guard when instead of being taken outside to his death, he was deposited back in the interrogation room where the same man sat behind the table, the same silent observer with ice blue eyes standing off to his side. Had it been three weeks already? He’d completely lost track of time. He looked around at the men for Harry, but he wasn’t there.

“Good afternoon, Rembrandt,” the man said. “I see you’ve come through your time away in fine shape.” Rembrandt scratched his stubbly beard and didn’t know how to answer. The man said, “I hope you took this opportunity to dwell on your situation in proper depth.” Rembrandt still didn’t know what the man wanted him to say, so he waited for another hint. The man crossed his hands in a thoughtful pose. “You’ve been on my mind a lot lately. So many of the things about you just don’t add up.”

Rembrandt trembled, but he didn’t know why. Had they done some research on him, like they had that college kid, and they’d turned up absolutely nothing? Or maybe his double on this Earth was a troublemaker. Oh, man, oh, man, he hadn’t even thought about that. Now, what?

His interrogator continued, “You’re obviously intelligent. Talented. Not bad looking for a negro. And yet, when you have a way out of the fields, you don’t take it. And when I asked you why, you said you didn’t want to be treated special.” The man uncrossed his hands and stood up. “That’s the kind of thing someone would say if he wasn’t planning on staying very long. Now, everyone knows that for coloreds the gate out front is pretty much one way.” He examined Rembrandt. “Why would you think that’s not the case for you?”

Rembrandt knew that with one wrong word, he could end up dead. “I don’t know. I’ve never been a slave. I guess I thought none of this could happen to me.”

The man pondered this seriously, then glanced over at the man with ice blue eyes, who offered no real reaction. “Rembrandt, do you want to get out of here?”

He was surprised by the question. “Yeah, I do.”

“Are you willing to do anything to get out of here?”

This sounded like a trick question if ever he’d heard one. “Well, I’m not interested in killing anyone, if that’s what you mean.”

The man considered this, then crossed his arms in another thoughtful pose. “You know, Rembrandt, I’ve never met a colored man like you. You have the oddest way of looking at me like you’re my equal.” Rembrandt didn’t comment. “I’m fascinated by that. I’d like to know where you got that arrogance.”

Without thinking, Rembrandt said, “It’s probably more pride than arrogance.”

The man did something Rembrandt never expected. He smiled. “I suppose it is. Well, we’ve decided that you’re not such a bad sort. You just needed a little time to adjust to how things are around here. Are you going to give us anymore trouble?”

Rembrandt thought he hadn’t given them any trouble in the first place, but he said simply, “No.”

“Good. Behave yourself, Rembrandt, and someday you might just come to see the good things in your new situation.” He nodded, and Rembrandt was escorted back out into the compound. He was taken to the showers and cleaned up and given new dungarees before he was taken to the mess hall as the men of Barracks E were gathering for dinner. The guards deposited him at the end of the line and then, without a word, turned and left.

From all the looks Rembrandt got from the others, he knew something was going on. But after that conversation, he was reluctant to ask anyone. He went through the line and got his dinner with the rest of the men, and then he found an empty spot on a bench at one of the tables and dug into his first real meal in weeks.

Aaron and Thomas quickly sat down next to him. After a quick glance around, Aaron asked him in a hushed voice, “Who are you?”

“What?”

“Who the hell are you?” He glanced around again, making sure the guards were far enough away that he couldn’t be heard. “For the last week and a half, they have been doin’ nuthin’ but talkin’ about you. What did you do?”

“Nuthin’.”

“Yeah, nuthin’. Like they go nuts over nuthin’.”

After more glances at the guards, the two returned to their places.

Rembrandt thought as he ate, and then he smiled. God bless his friends. They had to be up to something interesting.

The terrible waiting for everything to come together took a heavy toll on Wade, who found her shifts at the Rare Medium interminable. The day’s news reports were filled with coverage of the last night’s AFF attack, as well as two disturbing new developments—gangs of whites were staging “defense patrols” through white neighborhoods and beating up any blacks who were found in the area, and other groups were striking back with AFF-like attacks of their own in black neighborhoods. The situation had gotten so ugly so fast that Wade was afraid her clever idea of trying to trap an AFF “thug squad,” as they had become known, would be too little too late. They had to end this as fast as possible before anyone else got hurt.

Derek could see Wade’s anxiety and tried to cheer her up, even buying her dinner during their evening break. She was grateful for his efforts, even if they didn’t do much good. He kept the chatter light and upbeat as they had hamburgers at a nearby diner, and only once did he try to find out why she was so distracted. She wanted to tell him, but as she gazed at the yellow ribbon on his lapel, she realized that loose lips could sink this ship, and she didn’t want anyone to know what they were planning. She said simply that she was worried about the African Freedom Fighters and the effect they were having on the city and their efforts to get Rembrandt back.

“So, they’re not part of your group?” he asked.

“No. ...We think they’re intended to discredit us.”

He nodded. “I didn’t think you’d be associated with people who’d do that kind of thing.” She looked at him and caught the end of his flirtatious glance at her. “So, what are you going to do about them?”

She treaded carefully. “Well, what can we do? Just hope they get caught.”

“All of this must be hard on you.”

“Yeah.” She looked at her French fries and decided she wasn’t hungry enough to finish them.

“Especially living in your neighborhood. It must be pretty scary at night.”

She smiled slyly at him. “How do you know where I live?”

He smiled back at her. “I’m the assistant manager, remember? I get to see the personnel folders.” He admitted shyly, “I even went past your apartment building one night on your day off, just to see where you live.”

“Why didn’t you come up?”

“I didn’t think I’d be welcome.”

“Of course you would.” She realized what he probably meant—Quinn—and smiled slightly. “Really, you would have. But I don’t live there anymore.”

He was surprised. “Why not?”

“Quinn lost his job, so we didn’t have enough money to keep the apartment. I’ve moved in with some friends.”

“What did he do to get fired?” he asked, obviously wanting to revel—just a little—in his rival’s failure.

“He wore a yellow ribbon to work.” She looked at Derek sincerely. “You have no idea how grateful I am about how good everyone at the store is. It means a lot to me.”

He stammered a little, unprepared for her genuineness. “Have you told Kevin about your new address and phone number?”

“No,” she admitted with some embarrassment, “because I can’t remember the address. I’ll write it down tonight and bring it in tomorrow.”

He nodded. “So,” he asked, trying very hard to sound casual, “is Quinn staying with these friends as well?”

She chuckled at that. “No.” His attempt not to look pleased failed, and she laughed. She looked at the diner’s clock. “We need to start heading back.” He paid the bill, and they went out into the cool evening. She said, “Thanks. Thanks for dinner, and for trying to cheer me up. I guess I needed it more than I thought I did.”

He beamed. “My pleasure.” After a moment of hesitation, he took her hand and squeezed it, and she didn’t pull away. They held hands the rest of the way back to the store.

Mr. Jones met Wade after work to escort her home. Derek was busy in the back, so she couldn’t thank him again for dinner before leaving. She asked another clerk to relay the message and then left.

Once back at the Family Market, Wade sat with Leonard as he finished the last hour before closing time at 10:00 p.m. Mostly she was keeping him company during the slow final half hour. They chatted, and as she watched him laugh a little too much at her jokes, she had to smile. She remembered having that big of an unrequited crush when she was his age. She liked Leonard, and she liked being liked by him. That made her think about Derek. She hoped he hadn’t taken the hand-holding on the walk back to the store the wrong way. She liked them both, but not as much as they liked her. Besides, she and her fellow Sliders were just passing through, and she couldn’t afford to get too attached to anyone here.

That thought brought up the Professor. She wondered where he and Elizabeth were. They were probably still at the parish house, trying to hold the fragile Freedom League together. She wondered what was going to happen when the time came to slide. The Professor was always so detached emotionally, it had been fun watching him open up to Elizabeth. However, she knew there would be a terrible price to pay when it was time to say goodbye.

When the store closed, Wade offered to help Leonard close up, but he sent her upstairs. She went to her room, but she wasn’t ready to sleep yet. She sat by the window and looked out at the sleeping city. She wondered if the African Freedom Fighters were out tonight. What was she thinking? Of course they were. She prayed the trap they were setting was going to work.

She could hear Leonard downstairs, bringing in the boxes of produce from the store’s front porch. She opened the window to send down a greeting, then decided against embarrassing him. The cool air felt good on her face, and she crossed her hands on the sill and rested her chin on them. She wondered where Quinn was, she wondered how Rembrandt was, and she sighed. Then she thought how she looked—sitting forlornly by the window, Juliet-like—and chuckled to herself. “Ay, me.” It would have been fun to have Leonard gaze up at her and wonder aloud about what light through yon window breaks, but guys never think of stuff like that.

She heard a car turn down the street, but it caught her attention when it didn’t zoom past on its way somewhere. It was moving slowly, cruising. Wade looked at it, her nerves on edge, as it approached the store. It stopped in front of the porch. Wade couldn’t see Leonard from her position—the porch’s roof blocked her view of him—and even though she couldn’t see the person in the car’s front passenger seat, she could hear that person talking to Leonard. She heard Leonard boom back a response for them to leave, and then she heard taunts from inside the car. Leonard stepped out into view, defending the store and shouting taunts back at the people in the car.

Wade was about to rush to the phone to call the police when she saw the car’s passenger door open and a man get out...a very familiar man...a painfully familiar man. He was shouting insults at Leonard, and Wade could see the situation was about to get violent. She opened the window all the way and sat on the sill in full view. “Derek!” she called down. “You don’t want to do this.”

Derek visibly shook and looked up at her, dumbstruck. As they looked at each other, a moment of understanding unfolded, an understanding that a line had been drawn between them and would never be removed. He looked at Leonard again, glanced around, then quickly got back into the car. An argument broke out inside the vehicle, but it pulled away from the curb and sped down the street, turning at the first corner and disappearing from sight.

Wade left the room and rushed down the stairs to the front of the store. Leonard was waiting for her, but she found no gratitude. “Why did you chase him away? I could’ve taken care of him myself! I didn’t need your help!”

Surprised by his reaction, she shot back, “Hey, I was just trying to stop a fight. Excuse me for wanting to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.”

He was still angry. “What, you thought the po’ li’l nigger couldn’t take care of hisself? You wanted to come to the rescue?”

Her mouth fell open. “No! It’s just I know that guy. ...Or thought I knew him. I knew he’d run if he saw there were witnesses who could identify him.”

“They wouldn’t have been able to identify him after I’d gotten through with him!”

Oh, great, she thought, she tried to help and another tender male ego got bruised.

“I didn’t need your help, Wade. I could have pounded that creep and taught him a real lesson, not send him scurrying back like some cockroach hiding under the baseboards.”

Wade tried to placate him with, “Leonard, I know you didn’t need my help. I know how you feel—”

He shot back with wounded pride, “No, you don’t know. You’re white. You can _never_ know.”

Stung, Wade said slowly, “I wasn’t trying to rescue you. I didn’t jump in because I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. I did it for Derek. I wanted him to know that I knew what he really was. I wanted him to know that he couldn’t lie to me anymore. And I did it because I didn’t want you to get hurt. I mean, what if they had a gun in the car? I couldn’t have lived with myself if you’d gotten hurt.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then suddenly he caught her up in his arms and kissed her. Wade was so astonished she didn’t react, and when he released his embrace, he looked just as surprised as she did. They blinked at each other, and then he gathered himself enough to say, “Are you upset I kissed you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He frowned. “Doesn’t it bother you that a colored man kissed you?”

She knew what he was trying to get out of her, but all she could think of was something she’d once said teasingly to Rembrandt. “Uh-uh. But I am always a little disappointed that you guys don’t taste like chocolate.”

He stared at her. “How many colored men have you kissed?”

“I’ve kissed Rembrandt on the cheek a dozen times. At least.” There was also that freedom fighter on the Soviet Occupation Earth, but she didn’t want to try to explain that.

He stared at her a few moments longer, then swept her into an embrace and kissed her again. Not caught off guard this time, she went along with it for a few moments. But as pleasant as this was, she knew she shouldn’t be doing this, and she slowly withdrew her lips from his. He tried to follow her, but she turned away just enough to make her point. “Leonard, I like you...but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. This isn’t going to go anywhere. As soon as we get Rembrandt out, we’re leaving town. ...I’m never going to see you again.”

“It could take a long time to get him out. You might change your mind by then.” He kissed her on the cheek.

She didn’t resist too much, but she knew she could be strong. “It’s not that simple.”

A shadow passed over his face. “It’s Quinn, isn’t it?”

In the intimacy of the moment, she was surprised to hear another man whisper Quinn’s name in her ear. “Well, no...well, no. We have a...complicated relationship.”

He pulled back from her just enough to look at her skeptically. “What could be more complicated than a nigger and a white woman in this town?”

“You know, I don’t like that ‘n-word.’”

He regarded her with tender appreciation. “Neither do I.” He kissed her again.

Wade forced herself to pull away and put a hand on his chest. “Don’t do that again,” she said, surprised at how breathless she sounded.

“Don’t do what?” he said with a smile and went in for another kiss.

She managed to slip from his arms and took a step back. “That.” She regarded that charming face for a few moments. This was very flattering, and she was enjoying the attention more than she should. She took a second step back. “Really.”

He wasn’t going to give up so easily. He said with a challenging smile, “I’m going to try and change your mind.”

“I know. You’re not going to succeed.” She smiled. “But I do appreciate the interest.”

He chuckled and took a step towards her. She was wary, but, after a pause to show his honest intentions, he placed a soft kiss on her cheek. “Go on. I have to finish locking up.”

She sighed and headed for the stairs. She recoiled with surprise when she saw Mrs. Jones waiting for her halfway up the stairs. She gestured for Wade to follow, and Wade obeyed.

At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Jones said, “I know he’s a good lookin’ boy. And he’s a charmer. But Wade, please don’t encourage him. I’m so afraid for him sometimes. He’s young, he doesn’t understand. Negro men have died for a lot less.”

Wade nodded. “I know. And I really do like him. I hope I haven’t given him the wrong idea. But Mrs. Jones, someday there really is going to be a new way. I hope it comes during your lifetime.”

She said sadly, “Child, believing in a new way isn’t going to erase the old one. Please. Let him go.”

Wade nodded, reluctantly. Mrs. Jones left for her bedroom. Disheartened, Wade returned to her room.

Wade wondered what would happen when she went to work the next day, and she didn’t have long to find out. Everyone was looking at her oddly when she came through the door, and even before she could punch in, Kevin called her into his office. He said seriously, “This is very troubling, Wade, very troubling. I thought you had a bright future here. But I guess I was wrong.”

“What did Derek say about me?” she retorted.

He was surprised to hear her mention Derek. “Well, he saw what you did last night.”

She blinked with surprise. “He saw _me_? What did he say he saw me doing?”

“He said he saw you take several albums with you when you left last night.”

_That creep!_ “Well, since he was in the back for at least five minutes before I left, he’d have to have X-ray vision to see something like that.” She was about to recommend he talk with the clerk who had to relay her departing thanks to Derek, but she realized this was a done deal and there was no need to put someone else on the spot. She couldn’t leave without a parting shot, however. “Kevin, I didn’t steal anything. Derek lied about me because I saw him do something really despicable last night, and this is his revenge. I know you’re going to believe him over me. I’m sorry. Not for me—I don’t want to work with him anymore—but for you and the fact that you’re encouraging him to be a racist, two-faced creep. And I want my last paycheck now, so I don’t have to come back here and look at him again.”

Kevin was surprised—apparently, he was expecting a tearful denial, a plea for mercy, anything but so fierce an attack on her accuser—but he dutifully wrote up her paycheck. Wade noticed he left out the commission she was due, but at this point there was no sense in arguing about anything.

She came out into the shop just in time to see Derek disappear into the other part of the store. She smirked. So, he was a coward, too, huh? Big surprise. She said goodbye to the clerks on duty and headed for the door, only at the last moment she slipped into a listening booth. She waited a few minutes, then appeared just as Derek was finishing with a customer. He jumped with surprise as she struck a defiant pose. “Well, I certainly hope you’re proud of yourself. Gonna go out tonight and beat up some grandmothers to celebrate?”

“Wade,” he said in an urgent whisper, trying to keep this between them, “you don’t understand what you saw last night.”

She wasn’t interested in helping him keep this secret and said firmly, “And what part of you and your getaway driver picking a fight with Leonard did I not understand?” He flushed red with anger, and her eyes fell on the yellow ribbon on his lapel. Before he could react, she reached over and unpinned the ribbon. “You hypocrite.” She turned and headed for the door.

She heard a low growl behind her, and then he muttered, “Nigger lover.”

She whirled around and shouted, “And don’t you _ever_ forget it!” She shuddered theatrically, then, after a glance at the astonished clerks, she said to Derek, “After being in the same room with you, I need to take a nice, long, hot shower so I can feel clean again.” With a last glare at him, she turned and marched out the door, not looking back.

She went to the bank before it closed and cashed her paycheck, then decided she needed to burn off her anger by walking the three miles to the parish house headquarters. The exercise helped calm her, and it gave her plenty of time to think. Boy, was Quinn ever going to rub this in. He’d been right about Derek after all, even after only about ten words from him. Wonderful. He’d probably never let her live that down. She shook her head. How could someone who was so dense sometimes turn around and be so smart?

As she arrived at the parish house, she wondered what exciting things might be going on, but when she went inside, she was surprised to see Arturo sitting by himself at a work table covered with hundreds of canceled postage stamps. He was just as surprised to see her, and he checked his watch to make sure he wasn’t confused. “Miss Welles, what are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you’d be out doing something heroic.”

“Elizabeth is having another meeting, and I completely burned out and couldn’t face one more crisis session. So, they gave me something to do that doesn’t require a brain. For which I’m very grateful.” She sat at the table and looked at the stamps. Someone must have donated them, and he was organizing the chaos. “But what are you doing here?”

“I lost my job.” He reacted with surprise, and she told him what had happened last night and when she arrived at work. As she spoke, she unconsciously started sorting through the stamps with him.

He commiserated. “I’m sorry. Plus, how it happened must have been hard for you. I know you liked Derek.”

“Well, it wasn’t like I really liked him.” He offered her a mildly skeptical glance, and she shook her head. “No, it was mostly that he liked me. It’s nice having someone think you’re special.”

He smiled slightly as he continued with the stamps. “That’s true.”

She smiled at him, then asked quietly, “Professor, if you don’t mind me asking you a personal question.... Are you going to be okay when we slide?”

He didn’t look at her as he kept his attention on the stamps. In an even voice he replied, “No, I won’t.” She didn’t know what to say. “But I’ll get through it somehow.”

She watched him as he scrupulously attended to his busywork. “You’ve thought about staying, haven’t you?”

“A great deal.” She watched him work, suddenly filled with a great sadness at the thought that he might not always be there. He said in mild, detached tones, “And she can’t come with us. She’s too important here now. She wouldn’t leave, even if I asked her. Of course, if we don’t get Mr. Brown out of there, I won’t have to worry about choosing.”

The pain of his choice cut through her. “Oh, Professor. Either you lose Rembrandt, or you lose Elizabeth.” He didn’t respond as he kept himself busy with the stamps. “God, that’s so awful.”

“Yes, it is,” he said simply. “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” He gave her a familiar glance over the top of his reading glasses. “Or even my most obnoxious doppelganger.”

She smiled sadly, then said, “Professor, I don’t want to lose you. But if you decide to stay...I understand.”

He patted her hand with only the smallest of glimpses at her. “Thank you, my dear.” He returned to sorting the stamps, and they spoke no more of it.

The next day, Rembrandt was put back to work at the produce processing plant. The guards were watching him almost as intently as he was watching the endless stream of hothouse tomatoes roll by. Somehow, he managed to resist the siren song of the BUM-bah-CHIH-yah, BUM-bah-CHIH-yah. The day, blessedly, passed without incident.

That evening, as Wade expected and everyone else in the Freedom League inner circle hoped, one of the tempting targets offered up to the African Freedom Fighters—a small evening pro-peace gathering staged by two of the “trapdoor” Episcopalian churches—lured a thug squad. Waiting for them was a posse of two off-duty police officers and a collection of young members of the Freedom League. The attackers scattered in disarray—but not before two of the thugs were captured. One was a free black man who worked for an OAC-related company, who claimed he’d been ordered to join a squad or lose his job, and the other was a white OAC employee done up in blackface makeup and a wig. In a stroke of fabulously good luck, the white man turned out to be the exact same background looter from the original AFF film. The whole incident, from attack to unmasking, was captured on film by a television news cameraman.

The film was taken to Channel 6 for processing. Even though they were too late to get the pictures on the evening news, the story of the AFF bust was the lead item on the 11:00 p.m. news broadcast. The Freedom League council was jubilant. After an initial rush of triumph, however, Elizabeth watched the news with trepidation. “We’ve really upped the ante with this,” she said quietly to Arturo. “We’ve annoyed them up to now—but now we’ve humiliated them. They’re not going to take it lying down. I’m worried about backlash. This could get ugly.”

Quinn and Jubal were three-quarters of their way around the massive Whitelaw Land Company property, but they had gotten nowhere. The fences were stout enough to dwarf a high-security prison, and the buffer lands inside the fences were so vast that they could never see anyone on the property. Quinn spotted a hill in the distance and wanted to give it a try, hoping the extra elevation would help them see something—anything. On the way up the hill, they passed a black family harvesting a field of potatoes, and they were obviously not used to strangers as they stared at the two going past. Quinn hoped they looked nonchalant enough to avoid suspicion, and since he saw no one following them, he decided they’d succeeded.

A quarter mile away, on the hill’s tree-lined crest, they found a vantage point and got out of the truck. But it was more of the same. On the horizon, Quinn could just barely make out fields in cultivation, but the distance was too great to see if anyone was out there. Quinn sat down on a rock and sighed. “You were right. This is a waste of time. This is the closest we’ve gotten, and it’s nothing.”

“I told you.”

“You did.” Quinn’s gaze trailed down the hill’s steep side slope towards the potato field below and the family working. “Jubal, when people are out working like that, are they slaves or are they free?”

“Either. I know there are some coloreds around here who own their own land. I don’t know those folks, so I don’t know about them.”

Quinn looked back out at the distant fields, then at the weather. The sky was heavily overcast, and it looked like another front was coming in and it would be raining soon. There was no point in sticking around. He stretched tiredly. “I give up. Let’s go.”

He turned on the rock just in time to hear the sound of trucks roaring up the road. Two pickups and a flatbed appeared suddenly, blocking their pickup’s exit. A tremor went down Quinn’s spine when he saw that all three trucks had Whitelaw Land Company logos on their doors.

Ten men jumped out of the vehicles and rushed towards them. There was nowhere to go but down, and Jubal and Quinn sprinted for the steep slope to the side. Jubal was two steps ahead of Quinn when the first man grabbed Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn spun out of his grasp, but soon two more were on him. Jubal hesitated, but Quinn shouted, “Run! Go!” just as a third man joined the tackle and they all fell to the ground. Reluctantly, Jubal dashed and slipped down the slope to freedom.

Quinn was hauled to his feet and presented squirming and defiant to the man he assumed was the leader of the group. He was genuinely ugly, with tobacco-stained teeth glinting out of a leathery face. He could have been forty, he could have been seventy, Quinn couldn’t tell. He eyed Quinn up and down for a few moments, then spat out a slop of tobacco juice near Quinn’s foot. “Those jungle bucks sure can run, can’t they? Too bad for you.”

“We’re not trespassing.”

“So? We’re not the sheriff.” A few of the men laughed. The man squinted at Quinn. “You’re one of those damn Freedom people, aren’t you? You got that damn college boy look.”

Quinn said nothing, fighting his nausea at the man’s breath.

The man thought for a moment, looking around at the others, and then his eyes came to rest on someone Quinn hadn’t noticed before, someone who was better dressed than the others and watching the proceedings from a slight distance. “Sir, whaddya think? How big a demonstration you want?”

The man looked at Quinn, no emotion coming from his pale blue eyes. “He’ll do.”

Half of the men whooped with excitement, but a few of the others reacted with confusion. One said, “But he’s white.”

A couple of men headed for the trucks as their leathery-faced leader replied, “Not anymore. Larry, we got some cardboard in that truck. Bring me a piece, and a marker, will ya?”

Quinn didn’t know what was going on, but he didn’t like the way it felt and he struggled against the men holding him in place. It was to no avail, and soon one of the men came back from the truck with a length of rope and tied Quinn’s hands behind his back.

A man came back with a 12" x 18" piece of cardboard and a marker and handed them to the leader, who asked him to cut some string as he began to write. Within a minute they had fashioned a placard to their liking. One of the men saw it and chuckled. “Where do you want him?”

Several of the men started looking up at the branches of the trees around them, and when the leader pointed to one stout branch on the next tree over, Quinn suddenly realized what was about to happen. He scrambled to get away, but the men had a firm grip on his arms and he was trapped. “No! You can’t do this!” No one listened to him as they shoved him over to the appointed area under the branch. Quinn scrambled and pushed hard with his feet, trying to trip one of the men, trying desperately to get away, trying anything. “No! You can’t do this! You can’t do this to me! I didn’t do anything!”

Another man joined the leader, who frowned when he saw the man had a camera. “Shit, Phil, why you gotta bring that thing out now? We don’t need it yet.”

Phil said with authority, “You know I like to get the whole thing from beginning to end. That way I can pick the best shot. And I want a lot this time, ‘cuz this one’s special.”

“Oh, all right. But try to frame the pictures better. Last time you cut the guy’s head off.” When he realized what he’d said, he laughed hard, and the others laughed as well.

Quinn started to get dizzy as he saw one man take a long length of rope and start to make a noose. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t real, it couldn’t be.... But before Quinn could convince himself this was a dream, the business end of the rope was up over the sturdy branch and dangling in front of his face. He fought as they put it over his head and around his neck. Everything but the sheer terror of what was about to happen was stripped from him as he struggled against his captors. “No!! You can’t do this to me! …I’m white!”

The leathery leader approached him, a smile on his face. “Not anymore, you’re not.” He strung the makeshift sign around Quinn’s neck. In big letters it said “NIGGAR.” Those who hadn’t seen the sign yet laughed.

Quinn’s knees wobbled. He felt someone come up behind him and adjust the noose under his left ear. “God, do something,” he murmured, “God, please, no....”

The man behind Quinn said to the leader, “We are going to drop him, right? I mean, he is white.”

The leader turned to the observer. “Drop him or hoist him?”

The observer lit a thin cigarette and shrugged, having no interest in the details.

The man with the camera said, “Hoisting means better pictures.”

The leader turned back with a grim frown. “Hoist him.”

Quinn was barely aware of a grunt of disappointment behind him and the knot of the noose being shifted from under his ear to the back of his neck. He caught his breath as the slack was pulled out of the rope around his neck. “Don’t do this,” he managed to say as he fought a sob.

The man with the camera suddenly appeared before him. “Let’s get one while someone can still recognize you.” He snapped the shutter, and with no further ado, several men yanked down on the other end of the rope and dragged Quinn off the ground.

The rope dug into his flesh, and a white-hot bolt of raw panic flashed from his head to his loins to every inch of his body. He would have cried out if he could. He tried to suck in a breath, but his windpipe was sealed off. He flailed in the air, trying to loosen the ropes around his hands, trying to kick something, trying anything. He gasped uselessly, kicking, fighting, struggling. But the rope only seared deeper into his neck as his body weight tightened the noose. He writhed as his vision turned yellow, then red, then blue. His neck screamed with pain, his body screamed for oxygen, his soul screamed in terror.

God, I don’t want to die...!

After a frantic battle, he could feel the fight and the struggle begin to flow out of his body, but as his strength ebbed, he wouldn’t let them escape so easily and he twitched a few times, trying to bring them back. But they slipped through his grasp, and he was alone, alone with the pain and the terror and the blackness. And then the pain ebbed away. And then there was only blackness.


	9. Chapter 9

Arturo drove the Packard through the rainy streets on the way to another meeting with the reporter at Channel 6. Elizabeth looked out the window at the cold, gray drizzle moving in off the bay, then at the rain-soaked people gathered at a bus stop. “You know, I could really get used to being driven around in a car. Especially in bad weather like this.”

He looked at the rain fondly. “As perverse as the weather is in San Francisco, I do love it. It reminds me of home, and the good parts of my childhood.”

“There were bad parts?”

“Yes.” He was surprised that he was willing to talk about this. “My mother was killed in a bombing raid when I was a child, and no one could identify me, so I ended up in an orphanage. It was terrifying. I understood that I would never see my mother again, but even though I couldn’t really remember my father, I was terrified I’d never see him again as well. But no one would talk to me, no one would listen. I was a child, but I wasn’t stupid. After the war, my father came back from India and found me, and got me out of there. But I’ve never gotten over what happened. And I’ve always had a tremendous dislike of mindless authority.” When he looked at her at the end of his story, he caught her skeptical gaze. “What?”

“You didn’t get out of the orphanage until after the war?”

“That’s right.”

“What, you were about twenty-five?”

“No, World War II ended in 1945 in our dimension.”

“Oh,” she said lightly, “that’s right. I forgot.”

He turned and regarded her with amusement. “You’ve never believed me, have you?”

“Do I have to answer that question?”

“If you don’t believe I’m from another dimension, where do you think I’m from?”

“Well, Francine thinks you’re an outside agitator from MIT.”

He couldn’t quite contain his laugh. “Oh, yes, MIT, that hotbed of liberal subterfuge. And where do you think I’m from?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I want to believe you. And I’ve never met anyone like you and your friends. But, funny five dollar bills aside, I’m not ready to go with your story. It’s quite a leap.”

He stopped the car at a red light. “It’s not so much the leaping as the landing.” She frowned at him, and he chuckled.

“All right, smartie, tell me about some of these dimensions you’ve been on. Then maybe I’ll actually start believing you.”

“Well, where should I begin? The British States of America, where you were still ‘the Colonies,’ or the Earth where ninety percent of the men had been killed off, and we were imprisoned in a breeding facility?”

He glanced at her to enjoy her reaction, but she wasn’t paying attention to him. Her eyes were on something across the intersection. He followed her gaze and saw a motorcycle policeman scrutinizing them. Despite the light rain, the man was wearing dark glasses. They couldn’t see his eyes, but there was no mistaking that they were his target. Elizabeth said, “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

The light changed, and Arturo eased the Packard out into the intersection. The policeman didn’t move, and when the car was across the intersection, the officer did a sharp U-turn and turned on his lights. With dread, Arturo saw in the rearview mirror that the policeman was signaling for him to pull over. Steeling himself, he guided the car to the side of the road under an overpass. As he watched the policeman park his motorcycle and take out a notepad, he suddenly remembered something. “Oh, dear. I can’t imagine my driver’s license is good here.”

Elizabeth did a slow turn. “And you think of this _now_?”

In their side mirrors they watched the officer write, and then slowly dismount and approach the car. Arturo rolled down the window as the man approached. “Is there a problem, officer?”

The policeman removed his glasses, revealing a young man who couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. He nodded to Arturo, then Elizabeth. “Sir. Ma’am. Sorry about the theatrics. But I recognized you from the TV, and I didn’t know how else to get your attention.” He handed Arturo the note he’d written. “There are a bunch of us in the bike division who want to help. Off duty, of course,” he said with a grin. Arturo looked at the note. It was a name, address and phone number. “That’s my home phone,” the officer said. “You can leave a message if I’m not there. Please call. I really want to help any way I can.”

Arturo and Elizabeth both began breathing again. She took the note from Arturo and nodded to the young man. “Thank you, officer. You can count on it.”

The young man beamed. “This is really great. My best friend’s colored, and he’s been trying to become a policeman for years but they won’t take him. Maybe now things around here’ll start changing.”

Arturo said simply, “You can definitely count on that.”

Quinn had a dream. It was the next morning, and the others had come looking for him. His body had slipped from the tree and come to rest hidden in some nearby bushes. As he stood over his lifeless body, he watched with growing concern as the others searched through the area but weren’t finding him. Wade and the Professor and the others in the search party were calling his name in the futile hope that he was alive. He answered, but they couldn’t hear him. They passed by the bushes where his corpse lay hidden, and they continued on in their search.

Quinn’s concern expanded to panic as they moved away from him. “Wade! I’m over here! Wade! Professor! Come find me! Back here!” They couldn’t hear him, and even though he didn’t want to leave his body, he knew it was time for desperate measures.

He approached Wade as she turned to Arturo. “Oh, God, Professor, what if we can’t find him? What are we going to do?”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find him. Just keep looking.”

“Wade,” Quinn said, standing behind her, “I’m right here.” She didn’t hear him, and he stepped in front of her as she scanned the horizon. The pain in her eyes was more than he could bear. “Wade, I’m here. My body’s back there in the bushes. Please find me.” He reached to touch her cheek, but his hand passed through her flesh like a dream.

At the passing of his hand, she shuddered, then stiffened and turned back. “Oh, God. Professor! Back here!” She headed for the bushes, but when she got near the body, she stopped and choked at the stench of filth and death. When Arturo joined her and saw the blackening corpse, he pulled her away as she began to sob. He signaled to the others in the search party, and they picked up Quinn’s body to take it away. Wade tried to look back at him, but Arturo wouldn’t let her.

Quinn could feel the tug to follow his body, but he didn’t want to leave. “Wade...I have to go. Professor, take care of her. Get Rembrandt back.” As his body left, Quinn fought to resist its pull, but he was losing. He looked at Wade’s tear-streaked face. “Wade...God, I’m sorry I was such an idiot. I’m sorry I didn’t see. It all makes so much sense now.” He reached out to touch her face again, but the pull of his body forced him to take a step back. He looked at her in desperation. This would be the last he’d ever see of her. His departing body pulled him back another step, and then another. “Wade. Wade!”

He stumbled back at the inexorable pull of his corpse, and when he regained his footing and looked up again, he couldn’t see Wade or Arturo. He didn’t know where he was. He could feel people around him, but he could see no one. He called out to Wade and Arturo, but his voice echoed in the gray silence. Then he heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Go tell Papa he’s waking up.” He looked around as the gray began to lighten, and he drifted upwards slowly through the nothingness.

When Quinn finally managed to open his eyes, he couldn’t see very well. He knew he was inside, and it was probably daylight. He could hear a light rain tattering on a tin roof. He was lying on something, presumably a bed, and there was someone sitting next to him. But he couldn’t focus yet, so he ran a checklist through his other senses. Mostly what he noticed was the pain. His neck was on fire, and his head felt like someone had broken a two-by-four over it. He was pretty sure he wasn’t dead, as he figured being dead couldn’t possibly hurt this much. So, he was alive, and in a building, and someone was watching over him. But he couldn’t hear anything to give him any other clues as to where he was, so he concentrated on the figure again. His eyes were trying to focus, and now he could discern that his companion was a young woman, black, and possibly very pretty.

She said quietly, “How you feelin’?”

Quinn tried to say “Lousy,” but his throat erupted with fire.

“Don’t try to talk,” she said, apparently realizing her mistake. “You’re pretty tore up. Papa says you’re gonna be okay, though.”

Quinn managed to form the hoarse words, “What happened?”

“Your friend found my dad and the rest of us and we came and Papa and my uncles chased those Whitelaw creeps away and cut you down. Just in time, too. Another minute and you’d’ve been a goner for sure.” From her voice, Quinn guessed she was young, probably a teenager. Given the time frame of what had happened, they were probably the people in the potato field. He could hear the blush in her voice as she said, “...I had to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to get you breathing again.”

His eyes were working better with each passing moment, and he could focus on her fairly well now. She was probably sixteen or so, and she was quite pretty. And the admiration in her eyes when she looked at him was unmistakable. He smiled as best he could. “Mouth-to-mouth, huh?” he said, his bruised vocal chords croaking in protest. “Sorry I missed it.” She giggled with embarrassment. “Where did you learn CPR?”

She frowned. “‘CPR’?”

“Yeah, you know, mouth-to-mouth and heart massage.”

Her eyes widened with amazement. “I don’t know nuthin’ about heart massage. I just got you breathing again.”

It took Quinn a moment to understand the significance of what she was saying. When they’d gotten to him, he wasn’t breathing, but his heart was still beating…and if they’d been a few moments slower, they never would have been able to revive him…and he would be dead.

Lost in his thoughts, he was startled when two men came into the room. One was Jubal, who was elated to see him awake and okay, and the other was a large, capable black man in his early forties who put a fatherly hand on the girl’s shoulder. “How you feelin’?” he asked Quinn.

“Glad to be alive.”

“You got that right.” He looked at his daughter and said quietly, “Cassie, go see if your mother needs help.”

She groaned, knowing she was really being sent away. “Dad….”

“No argument. Go.”

Reluctantly, and with a heavy sigh, she got up and headed for the door. With a last glance at Quinn, she left. The man asked, “Can you sit up?”

“I think so.” With help from the two men, Quinn was soon propped up on some pillows at the head of the small bed. His head still hurt like hell, but the dizziness passed quickly. The man sat in the vacated chair as Jubal sat on the foot of the bed. “What happened?”

The man answered, “Your friend found us. We know those Whitelaw boys. They always trouble. So, we go out with protection. We found you as they was securing the rope to the tree. I shot the guy tyin’ the rope. They took off runnin’. My brother cut you down, and Cassie got you breathing again.”

“You shot him?” Quinn asked, struck by the man’s casual air in retelling the bloody event.

Jubal said, “There wasn’t time for a ‘please let him go, sir’ discussion.”

“…Did you kill him?”

The man shook his head. “They’d come back and butcher us if we did that. No, I jus’ took a chunk of his ear off. Give him a little somethin’ to remember me by.” The hardness in the man’s eyes, countered by the calm way he spoke, made Quinn realize violence must be the way of life for these people. Well, being black and living next to the Whitelaw property was probably about as dangerous as you could get.

Now that he was sitting up, Quinn noticed the clothes he was wearing weren’t his. They were baggy dungarees, clean but a couple of sizes too large. The shirt wasn’t his, either. “What happened to my clothes?”

The man gave Jubal a knowing glance. “They got kinda dirty. The shirt’s fine. But we figured you’d wanna wear a turtleneck for a while.”

Quinn shuddered when he realized what the man meant and put his hand to his throat. The sting of pain as he touched the material over the raw flesh made him gasp. He stammered, “How bad is it?”

The man said, “Not bad. My wife’s makin’ you an ointment for it. She says if you keep puttin’ it on, and you don’t pick at the scabs, there’ll probably be no scar.”

For the first time, the reality of what Quinn had gone through really hit him, and he started to shake. Only then did he notice his lower lip ached. He touched it and found what felt like a blood blister. …Jesus! His head pounded as he fought a panic attack.

The two men watched Quinn’s reactions patiently. “You’re one lucky pup,” the man said. “They did you a whole lotta favors, even if they didn’t mean to.” Quinn didn’t understand. “First off, they didn’t break your neck. I’m surprised, you bein’ a white boy an’ all, I’d a’ thought they’d go for a cleaner drop. But because they didn’t, you’re still here. And whoever put the rope around your neck moved the knot so you got choked off before the worst of it began.” Quinn couldn’t understand how what he’d been through could be any worse, and the man read his expression. “You ain’t never seen a man hanged before, huh?”

“No.”

“It’s a hell of a way to die,” he said bitterly. “I’ve seen men take ten, fifteen minutes to die. It’s just hell.” He saw Quinn blanch, and he relented. “Like I said, you’re one lucky pup.”

Jubal asked, “Quinn, you remember one of them having a camera?”

Quinn nodded slightly. “Yeah. Uh, I think his name was Phil.”

“You know if he took any pictures of you?”

“Yeah, I know he did.”

Jubal’s face brightened into a triumphant smile. “We got it. He dropped it when they ran.”

Despite his preoccupation with his brush with death, Quinn realized the importance of what Jubal was saying. “I know he got pictures of me…I know there have to be…I know….” He could hardly talk as the value of the find overwhelmed him. He knew Whitelaw men had to be visible in at least a few of the pictures. If Phil didn’t cut their heads off, he thought grimly, they’d be identifiable. “We need to get that camera to the police.”

The man scoffed. “You think the police around here care? Whitelaw owns them.”

“State authorities in San Francisco should care. If they don’t, we’ve got a friend at a TV station. Besides, this wasn’t your average lynching.” Quinn shrugged slightly. “Sometimes it pays to be white.”

Jubal was used to Quinn’s sense of humor and let out a laugh, but the other man only scrutinized him. “You’re one of those Rembrandt Brown people, ain’t you? We heard about that on the radio.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you go stickin’ your neck out for some colored man like that?”

Quinn trembled slightly. He’d never use that expression casually again. “Because he’s my friend.” He suddenly realized something alarming. “Are the Whitelaw people going to come after you for what you did? Have I gotten you into trouble?”

For the first time, the man smiled broadly. “No. They know to stay away from us.” He stood up. Quinn knew these folks could take care of themselves. He could picture this man with a hoe in one hand and a shotgun in the other. “But thanks for askin’.” He nodded to Jubal, who got up. “Your friend can take you back in a day or two. In the meantime, you rest up. Cassie’ll bring in some food for you later.”

Jubal headed for the door. “I’ll take the camera to the California Bureau of Investigation office. San Francisco’s better than Sacramento. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

The man followed, but he paused in the doorway and looked at Quinn significantly. “Oh. One more thing. My daughter’s fifteen.” His protective father glare was unmistakable.

Quinn shook his head with a slight smile, his thoughts drifting elsewhere. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Rembrandt was sorting his share of the endless stream of hothouse tomatoes when he heard a ripple of murmurs pass down the line. He wondered what was going on, then saw the cause of the commotion as five heavily-armed guards moved down the processing line, looking for someone. Rembrandt was wondering who the poor loser was until hands clasped onto his shoulders and yanked him out of the line. “What? What? I didn’t do anything!” No one said a word to him as he was hustled out of the plant and into the back of a truck. “Where are you taking me? I didn’t do anything!” he said over and over until the grimmest of the guards on the bench opposite him raised his rifle and pointed it squarely at Rembrandt’s face. Oh, God, this was it, he was being taken out and killed.

He’d run through every prayer he knew and was ad-libbing to God when the truck stopped. His knees buckled as he was pulled out to the ground, but to his surprise he wasn’t in a back pasture somewhere. He was at the door of the detention center. He was hurried down the stairs and deposited in his old cell. He steeled himself for them following him in and beating him to death, but the men locked the cell door and disappeared without a single word of explanation. He looked up and down the hallway, dumbfounded, then heard the truck drive away. What the hell was going on?

It was late Friday afternoon by the time Quinn and Jubal arrived at the parish house headquarters of the Freedom League. Quinn had had a long day of being bounced around on the bad roads and then giving a lengthy deposition at the San Francisco office of the California Bureau of Investigation. The agents he’d spoken with had been investigating the Whitelaw employees for a long time. They knew Whitelaw people were behind nearly all the lynchings in central California, but until now they had no proof. They said the camera and pictures were invaluable. They promised to act swiftly and decisively, and to keep Quinn informed.

It was raining lightly as they came into the parish house. Boy, what a story he was going to have to tell them! But when he saw Arturo and Elizabeth react with such concern and hurry over to him, he realized they’d already found out.

Elizabeth gathered him into an urgent hug as Arturo put a concerned hand on his shoulder. “Thank God you’re all right,” he said with anxious relief.

Quinn looked at him. “How did you know?”

Elizabeth said as she released him, “One of the members of the underground called us.”

Quinn looked at Jubal, who shrugged with ignorance.

Arturo said, “We’ve been beside ourselves since Wednesday. We had no idea how to get in touch with you. Are you all right?”

Quinn noticed their surreptitious glances at his neck, which was hidden under the full turtleneck that covered his throat all the way up to his chin, and their quick glances at the blood blister on his lip, the broken capillaries around his eyes, even the small, leftover scrape on his chin. He knew he looked terrible, but he’d gotten used to it for himself; their fresh reactions were unnerving him. He fought off a shudder and nodded. “I’m fine.”

Elizabeth guided Quinn to a work table and sat him down. “You spoke with the police already?”

“Yeah, the CBI. We just came from there.”

“Good, the CBI’s good. I figured you knew better than to go to the Merced County Sheriff’s office.” She sat down next to him. “And what’s this about a camera?”

Quinn suddenly didn’t want to think about it, but he forced the words out. “One of the Whitelaw guys took pictures. And the people who rescued me got the camera.”

She couldn’t believe it. “Thank you, Jesus.” She looked at Quinn. “You gave it to the CBI?”

“Jubal did.”

They looked at Jubal, who nodded.

She clenched her fists. “Quinn, you have no idea what it’s been like. For twenty years, those bastards have been sending out anonymous pictures of all their victims. And by God, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you’re the last one.” She stood up and gave Arturo a determined look. “We have to move fast.” She looked across the room to where Alice was folding flyers. “Alice, call everyone. Emergency meeting, as soon as they all get here.” Alice abandoned her work and came over to Elizabeth.

Quinn stood, not knowing why he felt uneasy. A dark, mysterious restlessness gathered around him. He was distracted from it as Arturo put a hand on his shoulder. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “I recommend you go over to the Family Market as soon as you can. Wade’s taken this very badly.” Quinn watched Arturo’s expression darken. “She’s the one who got the phone call. And the man—blast him, he couldn’t have broken the news to her any more badly. From what I was able to gather afterwards, he simply told her that ‘a white boy’d been lynched by some Whitelaw people’ and asked if he was one of ours.” Quinn sighed. “She thought you were dead. I got on the phone with the man and got the whole story, so she knew by the end of the call that you were alive. But it was a terrible shock for her, and the last two days have been very hard. I know she’d appreciate seeing you as soon as possible.”

Quinn wanted to see her, too, and nodded. He thought for a moment, then scratched the week’s worth of beard stubble on his face. He looked bad enough in his ill-fitting borrowed clothes; showing up looking like a road warrior was no way to present himself. He considered shaving, then hesitated at the thought of the rope burns on his neck. The ointment Cassie’s mother had given him was working and his skin was beginning to heal. He was sure scraping a razor over the still-tender flesh would be a big mistake. A shaver might be okay. He looked at Elizabeth, who was giving Alice instructions. “Does anyone around here have an electric razor?”

Elizabeth’s response was a deep frown. “An _electric razor_?”

Oh, well, Quinn thought, I guess they don’t have them here. “Or a safety razor.”

After another skeptical glance, she said, “I’m sure we can find something.” She sent Alice on her way, and, as Quinn saw Elizabeth alone for the first time, he realized why he’d felt uneasy. He had to face what he’d done, and he had to get it off his chest before he did anything else.

He dodged it temporarily by approaching her with a smaller confession. “Remember, before I left, how you said you hoped someday I’d understand when to hold on, and when to let go?” She nodded. “I understand now.” She smiled with appreciation.

But there was more for him to say, something darker, sadder. She saw the somber air of the confessional descend on him, and she could feel his need to unburden himself. She waited for him to find the words and the courage. “...I have to tell you something. I did something I’m really ashamed of.” She waited, wondering what could be so terrible to torture him like this. “...When I realized...the cavalry wasn’t going to ride over the hill and rescue me...I panicked. ...And I said something.” The contrition poured from his eyes as he finally looked her in the eye for a moment. “I was afraid. I didn’t want to die. ...And the only thing I could think to say was... ‘You can’t do this to me, I’m white.’” His shame burned on his face as he couldn’t look at her.

She smiled sadly and put comforting hands on his arms. “Quinn, it’s all right to be afraid. What you went through was terrifying and terrible. And there’s no dignity in that death.” He gave her a brief glance, surprised to notice tears welling in her eyes. “There’s no shame in wanting to avoid it any way you can. It’s okay. If it had been me, and I’d been white, I would’ve said the same thing. Probably twenty or thirty times.” She got a small smile out of him on that. She put a hand on his cheek. “Look at me.” Reluctantly, he obeyed. She said clearly, “I forgive you, Quinn Mallory. Now forgive yourself.”

Suppressed since the end of his ordeal, his guilt broke to the surface and dredged up the last of his terror and panic. He clenched his eyes shut, but the tears forced their way out. She hugged him hard and cried with him.

He didn’t ask why she was crying with him, he never thought about it. He didn’t know that she wasn’t crying for him, for what he’d been through, for what had almost happened. He didn’t know that even though her arms were around him, she was hugging someone he didn’t know, someone gone before Quinn was born, someone she hadn’t had a chance to forgive and give a farewell embrace so long ago.


	10. Chapter 10

Wade paced, then sat on the sofa, then got up and paced some more. The Professor had called twenty minutes ago, saying Quinn was on his way. She’d appreciated the call, but now time had ground to a halt. She looked at the clock on top of the small black and white TV set. It was still twenty minutes since the call. God, nothing could have happened to him on his way, could it? She paced, then looked at the clock again. It was almost twenty-one minutes since the call.

She’d gone to the window a hundred times at the sound of car engines, but none of the cars produced Quinn. She’d resolved she wasn’t going to cry when she saw him. He’d gone through enough, he didn’t need some scene. But with each passing car, and each passing minute, she wasn’t sure she could keep her composure. She sat and tried to gather herself. She heard a car stop out front, but by the time she got to the window all she saw was a beat-up pickup truck pulling away. Before she could wonder if he might have been in it, she heard footfalls up the stairs, someone taking them two at a time. Then he was standing in the living room’s doorway.

To hell with her composure. She was across the room in a flash and crying in his arms. He shushed her as he stroked her hair, but she wanted to cry, dammit, and she was going to cry as much as she wanted. She said some things she couldn’t remember later, comments like she’d been so worried, she was so afraid, she felt so bad that she’d been angry with him before he left, a dozen other small statements of small consequence.

He let her pour them out, letting her say what didn’t need to be said. She could have made a hundred apologies, or a hundred excuses, or a thousand. He didn’t care. All he cared about was that she was here, and he was here, and nothing could possibly feel as good as having her in his arms.

She cried into his shirt, which smelled of dust and the road. She was going to apologize teasingly for leaving a wet spot…when she realized this shirt wasn’t his. She looked at it in puzzlement for a moment, then looked up at his face. Only then did she notice the ugly blister on his lower lip, the array of broken capillaries around his eyes, and the half-healed scrape on the edge of his chin…and that he was wearing a turtleneck. In all the time she’d known him, she couldn’t remember ever seeing him wear one. …Of course. Oh, God.

Quinn could see where her large eyes were focused. “You don’t want to look at it, Wade. Trust me.”

She stared at the roll of the collar before her, transfixed. Then, Pandora-like, she reached for it and pulled it down.

Wade blinked, then realized she was looking at the ceiling. What…? She was lying on the sofa. Quinn was sitting next to her, holding and rubbing her hand. She didn’t understand what was going on. “What happened?”

He lost his fight to hide a smile. “You fainted,” he said gently. She frowned, more amazed than angry. She’d never fainted in her life. He said, “Don’t worry, I caught you. I knew it was coming. I did the same thing the first time I looked at it.” He pointed to the scrape mark on his chin. “That’s where I got this. I hit the bathroom sink on the way down.”

She remembered it now. It was red, with healing scabs caking over the raw flesh. It looked like something out of a nightmare. She sat up quickly to hold him again, but the room swirled and she had to lie back down. He soothed her and held her hand in a firm grip. She gestured for him to lean closer. “I have to see it, all of it.”

“Once wasn’t enough? I never knew you were a glutton for punishment.”

“I can’t faint if I’m lying down, can I?”

He thought about that for a moment. “I don’t know.” He hesitated, then leaned over her close enough for her to reach the collar. She pulled it down again, wincing at the ugliness of what those men had done to him. She pulled the collar down all the way around, turning his head so she could see the complete circle of the welt. When she saw how the circle rose at the back of his neck and ascended into his hair, the reality of it hit her again and even lying down she felt a little lightheaded. He took her hands off his collar, letting it flip back up into place, and then held her hands between his. “Okay, enough. I’m here. And I’m alive. That’s what you need to concentrate on.”

Her dark eyes scanned his face. “What was it like?”

He sighed. She wasn’t going to let this go. Maybe she needed to go through this to get past it, as morbid as it seemed to him. “…It was…really scary. It hurt like hell. And not being able to breathe….” He let go a deep breath, not knowing how to describe it. He realized he had clamped down on her hand, and he relaxed his grip.

“Did you see a tunnel and a light?”

“No. I guess everyone knew I was sticking around, so they saved it for later.”

“…Did you see your dad?”

He regarded her softly for a long moment. “No.” He caressed her cheek. “But when I was waking up, I saw you.”

She smiled hesitantly. “You did?”

“Yeah.”

The moment began to radiate with tenderness, and Wade could feel everything else slipping away. But she wasn’t quite ready to let go, not just yet. “What was I doing?”

He knew she wouldn’t want to hear that she was looking for his body, so he fudged a little. “You were crying.”

She almost chuckled. “Well, some things you can count on, I guess.”

“You’re not a crier.”

Hadn’t he been paying attention? “I’m not?”

“No. Not really. Not unless there’s a good reason. That’s one of the things I like about you.”

The moment passed the point of no return, and she was waiting for him when he leaned down to kiss her. Their lips met tentatively, barely brushing. Wade could feel his blister, and with a gentle finger she touched his skin just below it. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“No,” he said, lying only a little. He kissed her again, a little more firmly this time, and the emotion behind it made her catch her breath. Her response sent a thrill through him, and he kissed her again, and again. She kissed him softly, he kissed her, she kissed him again, they lost track of who was ahead.

She brushed her hands against his cheeks and cupped his face, a hint of sorrow in her eyes. “Promise me,” she started, but didn’t finish.

“Promise what?”

“…I don’t know.”

He smiled slightly. “I can promise that.” He sealed it with a kiss.

They exchanged a few more languid kisses, and then she said, “Quinn.”

“What?”

Another kiss. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

She could feel his smile against her lips. “Thanks.”

Another soft kiss, and then another.

Off to the side came a sharp breath of surprise and someone clearing her throat loudly. They turned and saw a distraught Leonard and a stern Mrs. Jones standing in the living room’s doorway, staring at them and waiting for an explanation.

They both sat up slowly. Wade said a little breathlessly, “Uh, I fainted.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Jones replied, crossing her arms in a skeptical pose. “Was that before or after he started giving you mouth-to-mouth?”

They looked at each other, then at her. They said it unison, “Before.”

She eyed them with too much of a smile to be taken seriously. “Uh-huh.” She looked at her son, who was devastated by this development. “Hon, you go start calling around. We gotta find Quinn someplace to stay tonight.” She looked at him apologetically. “Sorry, even the sofa’s full.”

Leonard said a little too firmly, “You can go back to the parish house. Weren’t you staying there before?”

Quinn stood up. “Yeah, but my ride left. Jubal went back to Merced.”

Wade stood next to Quinn. “No, that’s okay. He can stay in my room.” All three of them looked at her in amazement. She said firmly, “Just sleeping.” The amazement didn’t abate. She eyed Quinn. “We’ve slept near each other before. A bunch of times. We can do it again.”

The expression on the Joneses’ faces practically shouted, “After what you were just doing?”

Wade stated, “Really. It’s okay. Just sleeping.” She turned to Quinn, who was trying very hard not to look surprised, excited, eager, stunned, and a half-dozen similar emotions. “Just sleep,” she reiterated. He nodded obediently.

Mrs. Jones wasn’t so sure about this, but she shrugged. However, she was sure two short conversations needed to take place. “Leonard, you and Quinn go set the table for dinner. Wade, if you’re not still too lightheaded, I could use your help in the kitchen.” They all went off to their appointed tasks.

In the kitchen, Mrs. Jones said simply as they checked the beef stew, “Wade, you’re a grown woman, you can do whatever you want. But I will tell you that sleeping in the next room from you, on the other side of very thin walls, are my two little girls. Now, tomorrow morning, I don’t want to have to explain a lot of things to them that they’re not ready to have explained to them. And you know what I mean.”

Wade nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good. Now get me the pepper. This stew needs some serious help.”

Leonard wasn’t quite so forthright with Quinn as they set the table. He watched him for a short time, knowing he had no right to feel such deep resentment but feeling it just the same. He finally adopted a very casual air. “So, Wade’s quite a kisser.”

Quinn wasn’t quite sure how to take that statement, but from its delivery he knew it meant more than its face value and it gave him pause. “Yeah.”

Leonard could see he’d hit a nerve and added just as casually, “You know, she said she thought I tasted just a bit like chocolate.”

Quinn eyed him. He remembered when Wade had teased Rembrandt about that. There was more to this than just bluff and jealousy. “Well, you couldn’t have been too much like chocolate, otherwise you’d have teeth marks.”

Leonard smiled slightly, and then went back to his job. If he couldn’t have Wade, at least he could enjoy Quinn’s frown.

Dinner was a little odd for Quinn. He wanted to talk to Wade about Leonard’s innuendoes, but he had to wait until the meal was over. Leonard covered the store so his father could enjoy the meal with his wife. The girls were having dinner over at a friend’s house, so it was just Wade, Quinn, and the elder Joneses. Mr. Jones quizzed Quinn about what had happened, and Quinn told him everything he could, leaving out some details to spare Wade. Mr. Jones marveled at what Quinn had gone through and congratulated him on being the only one he ever heard of who’d survived.

As soon as dinner was through, Quinn volunteered to do the dishes with Wade. Mrs. Jones wasn’t about to say no, and soon the two were at work in the kitchen. Quinn decided a direct approach was better than subterfuge. “So,” he said as he started scrubbing the stew pot, “Leonard says you kissed him.”

Wade stopped wrapping up the leftovers and looked at him. She hadn’t intended to tell Quinn about that, but her intuition told her not to deny it. “Well, actually, he kissed me.”

“Oh, well,” he said, shrugging it off just a little too much.

She smiled and went over to him. “‘Oh, well’? That’s all? You don’t want to ask about the sordid details?”

“Why? How sordid are they?” he said with what he considered just the right amount of teasing.

“Not too sordid.” She said a little more seriously than she intended to, “It was before….” She gestured vaguely towards his neck.

He nodded, surprised at how reassuring that was. His gaze grew tender, but then he got that devilish glint in his eye and leaned down and gave her a quick kiss. “I’m glad you like vanilla, too.”

Oh, so that’s what he’d said that made Quinn believe him. She gave him a sly smile. “You know, Neapolitan’s my favorite.”

He regarded her, then said, “I’m not going there.” They laughed together.

Back in the world of electricity and indoor plumbing for the first time in a week, Quinn didn’t realize how tired he was until he nodded off in front of the TV right after they finished doing the dishes. Wade sent him off down the hall to Leonard’s room, where he looked at the double bed with dismay. He stretched out on top of the bedspread, his feet hanging off the end of the bed. He hated double beds. They were much too small. He rolled onto his side and curled up, looking at the other pillow. He smiled in spite of himself. Of course, small beds did have their compensations. Before he could think more about it, he was sound asleep.

Sometime later he was vaguely aware of Wade moving around the room, but it wasn’t until the covers moved and he felt her get into the bed that he woke up. She was giving him a scrutinizing up-and-down. “You going to sleep like that all night, or are you going to get under the covers like a human being?”

He stretched, then smiled. “Funny, I haven’t thought about this in a long time. Shrödinger used to sleep on my bed like this. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and he’d be watching me.”

“Must have been that mouse-scented cologne you used to wear.”

He smiled, then squinted when he noticed she was wearing an oversized purple T-shirt as a nightshirt. “Isn’t that Remmy’s?”

“Yeah. I didn’t really have anything to wear to bed in a house where little girls come marching in without knocking. And it helps me feel a little closer to him. I figured he wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t.” He sighed sleepily. “And I don’t have anything to wear, either.” He gestured for her to turn off the light as he slowly rolled off the bed. He said with a smirk, “Too bad I don’t have an old T-shirt of the Professor’s.”

She laughed as she reached for the light. “No, I think it would get a little crowded with all four of us in here.” The room went dark, and he started untying his shoes. In the soft light filtering in through the window, Wade watched Quinn strip down to his undershirt and briefs. It had been a while since she’d seen him so unencumbered, and it was nice to be reminded once again of what a nice body he had. He shivered in the chilly bedroom and quickly got under the covers.

Both of them had thought about this moment, but neither had really planned what to do. They made an initial effort at going to sleep, but the pretense lasted about five seconds, and then they resumed the embrace that had been interrupted earlier. “Poor Leonard,” Wade said between kisses.

“Why?”

“This is his room.”

Quinn chuckled. “Talk about rubbing it in.”

But thoughts of anything else quickly dissipated. The light tone of the afternoon’s kisses gave way to a more urgent rhythm, and the intensity between them began to build. His hand slipped down to the back of her leg just above her knee, and then it drifted up towards the hem of her T-shirt.

At that intimate touch, she hesitated, then pulled back from his lips. “No, Quinn. We can’t do this.” She put her hand on his hand to stop its progress.

“Why not? We won’t make a lot of noise,” he said teasingly and tried to kiss her again.

She didn’t respond to his kiss. “No. I don’t mean them. Those girls could sleep through a nuclear blast. I mean we can’t do this for us.”

He knew she meant it, and he was a little frustrated at the sudden turn of events. “Why not?”

She let out a deep breath. This wasn’t as easy for her as he seemed to think it was. But somebody had to be the sensible one. “Can’t you see the pattern here? The only time I look this good to you is when you’re facing death.”

He was taken aback at the harshness of her comparison. He stammered, “No, Wade, no, I mean, it’s not like that. This is different.”

Seeing the hurt on his face, she relented. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. And it’s not just you, it’s all of us. Losing Remmy is so awful, we’re all going a little crazy. I mean, we might not get him back. And if we do, it might be too late to leave. The stress is making us tear at each other.”

He kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “This isn’t tearing at each other.”

Oh, those soft, blue eyes, waiting for her reaction…. She needed a counter argument—quick. “Besides, where do we go from here? If we become a couple, what happens if it doesn’t work out? What do we do then? People usually go to neutral corners after they split up. We don’t have neutral corners. It’ll be hell for everybody.”

“Wade,” he said, trying to make another kiss on the cheek do his talking for him.

His kisses were beginning to work. It was time for the heavy artillery before she caved in. “And another thing. …I don’t have any birth control. And I doubt you do. And even if somehow we can make a relationship work while we’re sliding, I’m not going to take that kind of chance. I want to have children someday, but not while I’m jumping between dimensions.”

The heavy artillery worked, stopping him in mid-kiss. He gathered his thoughts. He had to say this just right, because he knew he’d only have one chance. “It’s not like what you think. …I died, Wade. And death can put a lot of things in perspective. I saw things clearly for the first time. I understood what’s important, and what isn’t. And you’re very important. You’re more important than anything. …Even getting home.”

Her stomach fluttered at his words, and if he’d kissed her at that moment, she probably would have surrendered. But she found her resolve and managed to say, “It’s easy for you to say this now. And maybe it’s true. But I do not want to go through what happened last time. I don’t want to start something, just to see it vanish when we hit the next world. Vortex amnesia hurts.”

He knew he was losing her. He said urgently, “How can I make you understand? This is real, Wade. It’s not going to go away.”

Her eyes shone with the cool, rational deliberateness that he usually admired but at this moment hated. “Then it’ll be there later, when we both know for sure.” He closed his eyes, knowing that he’d lost. “I just want to sleep now.”

She turned over but didn’t roll away, and he put his arms around her waist and pulled her against him. She put her arms on top of his and held them in place. He whispered behind her ear, “Please believe me. It’s not like you think it is.” She tightened her embrace of his arms, but she didn’t turn to face him, turn to face that what he was saying might be true. The moment hovered above them, and then it drifted away. The sleep they both so desperately needed approached, and, safe in each other’s embrace, they fell into the deepest, most restful sleep they had enjoyed for as long as either of them could remember.

As Wade slowly drifted up towards the waking world, she was first aware of how toasty warm she was. It was very nice, very comforting. She hadn’t been all that warm since they’d arrived on this Earth. Next, she realized she was lying on her side, nestled against something, her head resting against it and her arm draped around it, something big and warm and reassuring. Only after another couple of moments did she remember that this warm, reassuring object before her was Quinn.

She kept her eyes closed for a while, wanting to enjoy the moment. He was still asleep, she knew from his deep, even breathing. She smiled when she realized once again that this guy didn’t snore, and what a wonderful thing that was. He was sleeping on his side, facing her, and his arm was around her, resting on her waist. His gesture was no more possessive than her own, and she was grateful for that, although she didn’t know why.

She finally opened her eyes and looked at that nice chest a couple of inches away. Her eyes instinctively trailed up to his face, but they stopped when they got to the rope burns on his neck. In the cool light of morning, they looked red, angry, defiant, and as if they were glad to be there and sorry they hadn’t killed him. But he had beaten them, and he might even beat having scars, too. Well, physical scars, anyway. At least now Wade could look at the raw flesh of his wounds and not feel lightheaded.

As she examined his burns, she saw for the first time how carefully he’d shaved around them, above and below. That was undoubtedly for her benefit. She didn’t like the way he looked with beard stubble, and without her even asking he’d endured the trouble of shaving around so angry an obstacle. What a nice guy.

Her gaze continued up to his quiet face. He was so handsome, almost angelic when he slept. God, how could anyone look so good asleep? Wade knew she didn’t. Her hair always stuck out every which way, and her face, well, her face was not always her friend first thing in the morning. It wasn’t fair.

She watched him sleep and thought about last night. She knew she’d done the right thing, although now she couldn’t remember why. Well, she was pretty sure she’d done the right thing. She thought about kissing him. If she hadn’t done the right thing last night, one kiss now would probably take care of that. She knew how vulnerable guys were first thing in the morning. Yeah, one kiss to wake him up—wake him up and open his eyes in all kinds of ways—and that would be the end of worrying about that pesky “right thing” anymore. It was Saturday morning, and the Joneses were always up early and out of the house by dawn on this day. They’d have all the privacy they could want. ...No, stop it, don’t go there, she forced into her thoughts. _Wade, you know how you are. You went through this before. You couldn’t bear having him turn away from you again. Learn your lessons and stick to them._

But she wanted to kiss him so much. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and feel his arms around her, holding on to her like he’d never let her go. But she had to admit it, that wouldn’t happen, at least not in this lifetime, or at least not the way things were now. She sighed, then gave up and nestled her head against his chest and reveled in the warmth and the gentle lullaby of his strong heartbeat. That wonderful, strong, gentle heart, there was nothing wrong with that. The genius brain, it had a few misfiring synapses, but that heart, she loved that heart. She drifted back to sleep.

Quinn felt her movement and blinked awake. Oh, she wasn’t awake, she was just moving in her sleep. He smiled as he realized how she was sleeping, snuggled against him, an arm around his chest. She was such a contradiction. Last night kissing him so passionately and then stopping just as it was getting interesting, and now again holding on to him as if they were more than what they were. There were times when he thought he actually understood her, but he knew he was only fooling himself. He could traverse the dimensions and solve some of the great mysteries of science, but he couldn’t solve the mystery of Wade.

He watched her sleep, absorbing the details. Her hair was disheveled in a way he always found so irresistible. He couldn’t see her face, but he knew how it looked, cloaked in sleep and making her look like she was floating between two worlds. God, he wanted to kiss her. Wake her up with a kiss that said how he really felt about her. If he could get through to her before she was really awake, maybe he could get his message across before that stubborn, rational part of her brain kicked in and stopped her, and then maybe he’d have a chance.

He thought about kissing her. Would she be angry with him? Maybe. Any angrier than normal? Probably not. She’d go along with it until she woke up, and then she’d push him away and complain, either with a laugh or an annoyed frown, depending on...depending on things he knew nothing about. Depending on that mystery deep inside her, that mystery he wanted to unravel but didn’t know how to solve. Yeah, kissing her. That would be a very nice way to start the day. It would be a nice way to start a lot of things. He could feel his body waking up, and he stopped that thought right away. No use torturing himself. Wade had made her wishes clear last night. And if he couldn’t convince her of his true intentions in the warm passion of last night, how could he hope to do so in the cool light of morning? No, it was time to give it up. Enjoy this moment, and then go back to sleep.

He didn’t want to risk waking her, so he gently kissed her hair and settled back into his pillow and closed his eyes. He didn’t see her smile at his touch, and he didn’t know that at that moment she was dreaming that he awakened her with a kiss that changed everything between them.


	11. Chapter 11

Rembrandt was awakened from a dream about his grandmother’s Thanksgiving dinner by the sound of people coming down the stairs. It was too early for breakfast, but there was no urgency in the steps, so he guessed it wasn’t a crisis. He sat up and stretched as he heard whispers, and then he saw a small, bespectacled man of sixty appear in the hallway outside his cell. Rembrandt didn’t recognize him, but the man was examining him with a curious frown. After a while, he began to feel like a zoo animal on exhibit. “Yeah?”

The man was slight, bookish, innocuous, and looked like he’d be a lot more comfortable in a CPA’s office than down in this cellblock. “I expected you to look different.”

Rembrandt stretched again and stood up. “Look like what?”

“I don’t know.” The man kept looking at him, not understanding something.

Rembrandt didn’t care for this. “You look any longer, I’m gonna charge admission.”

The man continued to examine him. “I don’t get it. What’s so special about you?” Rembrandt didn’t know what he was talking about. “I mean, it’s a pretty good life here. Certainly a lot better than being homeless on the streets.”

Rembrandt let out a sharp laugh. “Homeless? Who said I was homeless?” He indicated his cell and his naked bunk. “And you call this good?” He pointed down the hall. “You call a man being beaten to death down there good?”

The man frowned. “No one’s been beaten to death.”

“Well, I don’t know if he died or not, but when they dragged his body out of here, he wasn’t putting up much of a fight.”

The man’s frown grew deeper. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

He shot his visitor a skeptical gaze. “Which one of us was here that night?”

The man didn’t like the sound of that at all, and he continued his troubled frown as he gazed at the celled man.

This was getting old. “You get a good enough look? Would you like my autograph? I’d sing ‘Tears in my ‘Fro’ for you, but I got a cold.”

Still troubled, the man walked away towards the stairs. Rembrandt heard him say, “There was a beating?”

As the footfalls headed up the stairs, another voice said, “It wasn’t a beating, Mr. Whitelaw….”

After a moment, Rembrandt did a double take. That little shrimp was James Whitelaw? The Devil Incarnate? He looked like a bookkeeper. Rembrandt sat on his bunk. Well, there was nothing like talking back to the owner to get him a few more weeks in solitary. He waited for the guards to come and give him a pounding, but, after a while, all he got was breakfast. Hhm, he thought, this was starting out to be a strange day.

Wade woke up to a gentle touch on her shoulder. She rolled over to see Quinn, who was dressed and standing next to the bed. “Time to get going,” he said quietly. “The Professor called. Something’s up. We need to get down to the parish house. He’ll be here in fifteen minutes to pick us up.”

Half an hour later, the inner circle members were gathered at the parish house. Elizabeth thanked them for coming so promptly on a Saturday morning and said it was worth their effort. “I got a phone call from Special Agent Henderson at the CBI this morning. They processed the roll of film,” she said with a nod towards Quinn, “and the pictures are everything we could possibly want and more.” The group members smiled. This was the first real good news in a long time. “He told me they’re identifying all the people they can, and they’re probably going to be making arrests tomorrow morning.” The smiles grew to exclamations of thanks and triumph. “I asked him to make the photos public as soon as possible. He said, depending on how the roundup goes tomorrow, the photos could be released to the press as soon as Monday.”

She paced before the group, channeling her excitement. “We have to be ready. Once those photos hit the street, we need to be in a position to capitalize on the public revulsion when people see for the first time the real face of the violence they’ve been allowing to go unchecked all these years. I talked with the superintendent of Buchanan Park. We’ve got the bandstand and that whole section of the park reserved on Friday night. We’re going to have a combination of picnic, rally, and concert. All the Freedom League groups are going to be invited, and the general public is welcome, too. I want this to be huge. I want to publicize this so it’ll be so big even the OAC will be afraid to crash it.”

“I’ve got a question,” Wade said. “Do we know if those guys know we have their camera?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Who knows? But we have to assume they’re doing some sort of.…” She looked at Arturo. “What did you call it?”

“Damage control,” he answered.

She nodded. “And knowing the OAC, as soon as we announce our rally, they’re suddenly going to have a huge party, with door prizes, and bands, and you name it. That means we have to move so fast on this that they can’t catch up to us.”

Like a general deploying her troops, she assigned to everyone tasks ranging from writing announcements and press releases to calling all the Freedom League churches so the rally would be mentioned at the next day’s services. When the usual Saturday morning volunteers began to arrive, they were surprised to find the inner circle members already hard at work.

Wade was responsible for the writing, and she was having her hands full trying to compose a press release at the keyboard of the creaky old parish house typewriter. But she managed to get something halfway intelligent hammered out, and since Arturo and Elizabeth were talking with some of the volunteers, she took it over to Quinn for proofreading. He was puzzling over scattered papers, trying to devise a logistics system that would be used to keep track of all the attending groups. At her approach he said, “Man, what I’d give for a laptop right now.”

She handed him the press release and said, “You and me both.”

He read as she watched Arturo and Elizabeth send the volunteers off to various errands. “Typo.”

She looked at the press release. “Where?” He pointed at the “e” that wasn’t supposed to be in Buchanan. “Darn it. Anything else?”

“Nope. Looks fine.”

“Thanks.” He gave her back the press release, and she looked at Elizabeth and the Professor. “They’re so good together. Admit it, Quinn. They’re a great team.”

He watched them as Arturo headed for Elizabeth’s office and Elizabeth turned towards them. “Yeah. You’re right. I’ve never seen him this happy. There were times when he was giving lectures, and he was so into it, he was in the zone, and it was like he was flying and taking us along for the ride. But I’ve never seen him like this.”

Wade sighed as Elizabeth walked across the room towards them. “Must be nice, having a great calling in life, and having the right man by your side.”

Her comment stung Quinn a little, and an echo of last night’s tension resurfaced. Sliding was a pretty good calling, and as far as he was concerned, she did have the right man by her side, if only she’d turn around and notice. While Elizabeth approached the table, he shot Wade a teasing, “You should be so lucky.”

Wade laughed and gave him a gentle slap on the arm. “You’re such a shmuck.”

Elizabeth seemed taken aback by their exchange, but stood opposite them. “How’s it going?”

Wade handed her the press release. “Fine. I’ll fix the typo.”

Quinn said, “I’m getting there.”

Elizabeth nodded as she looked over the press release. “This is great.” She looked at them thoughtfully, a bit confused. “Pardon me for asking, but…are you Hebrews?”

They reacted with surprise. Wade realized how she’d gotten that impression. “Oh, shmuck, people use that all the time.”

Elizabeth looked doubtful, but she said to Quinn, “What you said, ‘you should be so lucky.’ I’ve only ever heard Hebrews say that.”

Quinn looked at Wade, then shrugged to Elizabeth. “I didn’t know that was Jewish.”

Elizabeth was looking at him, but her gears were turning and her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Then suddenly the light bulb went off, and she broke into an astonished, then radiant, smile. She looked at Wade. “Excuse me.” She went around the table and gave Quinn a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. You’ve just given me a brilliant idea, and I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it sooner.” She strode back to her office.

They looked at each other, not knowing what he’d just inspired. “Brilliant, huh?” Wade said.

Just as puzzled, he replied, “What can I say, I’m good.”

A few moments later, Arturo appeared in the doorway of Elizabeth’s office. He beamed proudly at the two of them and gave Quinn a hearty thumbs-up before going back inside. In a single gesture, the two abandoned their work and went to her office to solve the mystery.

The synagogue was small and hidden away in a quiet corner of the city. Elizabeth led the way out of the Packard. A woman who was sweeping the synagogue’s front step nodded to her and said the rabbi was expecting them. The Sliders followed Elizabeth inside, as she knew the way.

The elfin, smiling rabbi of sixty appeared in the hallway and greeted Elizabeth with a warm familiarity. Wade actually blinked a few times as she looked at him—from the Old World cut of his coat to his sharp, wonderful Yiddish accent, the man looked, talked, and moved just like he’d escaped from _Fiddler on the Roof_. After Elizabeth introduced her three companions to Rabbi Avram Pistotnik, he led the way to a side reading room.

As they settled around the table, he said cheerfully, “Please tell me how I can help you.”

Elizabeth got straight to the point. “We’d like the Council of Synagogues to join the Freedom League.”

The rabbi’s eyebrows shot up in wonder. “The Freedom League? What does that have to do with us?”

She said, “Of course the league’s primary focus right now is the release of Rembrandt Brown and changing the law to protect undocumented negroes, but our larger goal is the abolition of slavery in California.”

“Again, I don’t see how this involves us.”

“We want the league to expand to include anyone who wants fair and equal treatment for all people. For 150 years, the slave owners have counted on all the people who don’t see this as their fight to stay out of it so they can do whatever they want. We want to take away those people they’ve been hiding behind. We want the OAC and their supporters to understand that from now on it isn’t just them versus the abolitionists—it’s them versus _everyone_.”

He nodded thoughtfully, stroking his gray beard. “That’s quite a task you’ve set up for yourself.”

Arturo added, “We’ve already discussed this with the president of the Japanese Business Association, and, over the next two days, we’ll be meeting with leaders from the Mexican, Chinese, and Korean associations, and half a dozen other groups.”

The rabbi nodded with a smile. “So, what did Kaoru-san have to say to you?”

He replied, “He said he wanted to know what you thought.”

Pistotnik chuckled. “Well, Mr. Freedom’s Lion, I’ll tell you what I think. I think this is a very worthy cause, and I think all the members of the Bay Area temples will think this is a very worthy cause, and I think we will not interfere with your fight with the OAC.”

Elizabeth said sternly, “Avram, I’m counting on you.”

“Count on an abacus, count on your fingers. But don’t count on me to ask everyone to jump into somebody else’s fight.”

“This is everyone’s fight,” Arturo countered. “History has taught us time and again that where freedom is denied to one, it can be denied to all.”

“No,” the rabbi countered sternly. “I will tell you what history has taught us. It’s taught us to mind our own business. There are only two million Jews left in the world. And the only reason we’ve survived is because we were out of reach. History’s taught us that we live very precarious lives, and that we live here by the tolerance of those in power. If we anger them, or we give them any excuse to hate us and blame us for their own problems, we die. It’s that simple. History has taught us to keep a low profile, and to keep to ourselves.”

The others were stymied by his logic, but the glint in Elizabeth’s eyes showed she had a few cards yet to play. She said with a deliberate sigh, “You know, Avram, I’m surprised. You are the elder brothers of the world. It’s your job to show us what’s right.”

“And never was there a more ungrateful family.”

“And I thought the Hebrews would be the first to join us and stand up for what was right. After all, your people have been slaves, too.”

He shrugged slightly, conceding, “Twice.”

“Twice,” she said with a long nod.

Wade jumped in uninvited. “And who’s to say the third time couldn’t start tomorrow?”

The rabbi eyed her, admiring the resolve in her face. He said to Elizabeth, “She’s quite a weapon, that one.” To Wade he said, “Listen, my sweet young woman, we’re invisible to the OAC, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Quinn said with more agitation than he intended, “No one’s invisible anymore.”

Elizabeth regarded Quinn, then gave the rabbi a serious nod. “Avram, in a couple of days, something’s going to happen that will change everything. The fence is going to be torn down, and all the people sitting on it are going to have to choose one side or the other. I wanted to give you a chance to get on the right side beforehand so you don’t get pulled down with the fence.”

Pistotnik was intrigued by their intensity. “What is it? What’s going to happen?”

She said, “I can’t tell you. But in a couple of days, everyone’s going to know that no one’s safe anymore.”

He looked at her, then at Wade, then at Quinn, trying to figure it out. Quinn was the most agitated of the three, so he asked him. “ _Yingele_ , tell me what happened.”

Quinn looked at Elizabeth, and she acquiesced with a small shrug. He said to the rabbi, “Some OAC people are going to be arrested for doing something really terrible.” Pistotnik frowned at him, wanting to know more. “To someone you wouldn’t expect.”

“You?”

“Me.”

“What is it?”

Quinn glanced at the others, then, after hesitating, pulled down his turtleneck for a moment. Rabbi Pistotnik recoiled with an exclamation of surprise.

Elizabeth said to him firmly, “On Monday, when that fence comes down, which side are you going to be on, Avram? Ours, or the side of the people who did this to him?”

She had him, and they all knew it. He finally gave up. “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do.” The others were pleased, but he shook his head as he stood. “But don’t get your hopes up.”

The others stood and Elizabeth said, “I have every confidence in you, Avram. I always have.”

He sighed, having no idea how he was going to live up to her faith in him. “No promises. And probably no miracles.”

“Hey, is that the fighting spirit that brought down the walls of Jericho?”

He sighed and looked at the others. “Again with this. She’s ruthless.”

Arturo nodded. “I’ve learned it’s best just to go along with her.”

Avram said knowingly, “I bet you have.” He looked at her with admiration and affection. “ _Oy_ , you’re such a troublesome woman.” She smiled at that. “Only for you would I do this.”

She took his hand. “We underdogs have to stick together, you know.”

He squeezed her hand, then sent them out the door. “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

“And it will be a glorious sight to behold when we do see it,” she called back to him as she led the way down the hall.

Rembrandt knew it was Sunday morning as he drifted awake because he could hear the men singing. It was a spiritual he didn’t know, but it was still sweet music to wake up to. Breakfast arrived, and to his amazement it included a fried egg on top of his brown rice. Hey, he wasn’t complaining. From what he could see, the weather looked bright and the cell felt a little warmer. This might actually turn out to be a good day.

He was bolted out of his morning reverie at the roar of approaching car engines and the sharp squeal of brakes outside his window. He looked at the guard in the hallway, who looked just as surprised as he did, and he got up and tried in vain to see the commotion through the window. Car doors opened and slammed shut, and there were shouts and sounds of running. He thought he heard people shouting, “CBI!” and something else, but he couldn’t make it out in the ruckus. To his astonishment, he saw the guard in the hallway hesitate, then run up the stairs. He heard the door at the top of the stairs being locked, and he realized he was alone. He quickly stood his bed frame on its end and climbed up on top to see out the window.

The compound yard was filled with nondescript sedans, many with their doors left open in the haste of the moment. A few men in suits were standing by the cars, rifles in hand. To Rembrandt they looked like Feds. There was shouting and various sounds of chases all around, but he couldn’t see what was going on. Then, to his astonishment, he saw Feds leading two handcuffed Whitelaw employees towards the cars. One of the Whitelaw thugs tripped and fell, and the other began kicking him and swearing at him and calling him every name in the book. It took three of the suits to pull him away and another two to get the downed man back on his feet. They were put into the back seats of separate cars, but the one man was still shouting obscenities at the other at the top of his lungs. Rembrandt thought the target was named Phil, but he wasn’t sure. A few minutes later, another man was brought to the cars and locked in the back, and then fifteen minutes later a fourth prisoner was brought into sight. As he was being put into the back of a sedan, Rembrandt was surprised to see that it was the leathery Mr. Patterson. Rembrandt had no idea what was going on, but he loved it.

The rest of the Feds got into their cars, and with a roar of authority they sped out of the compound towards the front gate. He could see a few people on the perimeter of the compound looking at them depart, and just at the edge of his line of sight he could see the men from the church service pressed up against the fence, watching the action. When the cars were gone, the guards began running towards the slaves and ordering them back into the barracks. He heard the sound of the door at the top of the stairs being unlocked, and he hopped off the bed frame and put it back in place. He was sitting on the bed in his usual spot when the regular guard and a supervisor appeared outside his cell. “Hey,” Rembrandt asked, “what was all that going on out there?”

The supervisor scowled at him. “Never you mind.” He went back upstairs, and the guard resumed his usual post. Rembrandt could tell he was shaken up. Whatever had just happened, it had obviously taken everyone by surprise. This was great. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud.

When Elizabeth arrived at the parish house after church, she found two very welcome phone messages on her desk. The first was from Rabbi Pistotnik: “We’ll be there with bells on until the Sabbath.” The second was from Agent Henderson of the CBI: “Four down, five to go.”

She had tears in her eyes when Arturo came through the door. He didn’t understand what was wrong, but when she came over to him, she kissed him and wiped away a tear. “All my life I’ve dreamed of the Promised Land,” she said, her voice trembling, “and now, for the first time, I actually believe I may live to see it.”

On late Monday afternoon, Quinn was helping to make sandwiches for the volunteers at the parish house when Elizabeth got the phone call she’d been waiting for. Elizabeth relayed the message to him, and he quickly left the kitchen in search of Wade. He couldn’t find her, so he found Leonard. “Mom called and asked her to watch Anita and Mildred. She left half an hour ago.” Quinn left in the Packard with Elizabeth’s blessing.

Wade was surprised to see him show up unannounced. Since he’d moved back into the parish house on Saturday, he hadn’t been back to the Joneses’. “Mrs. Jones had to go help a friend,” she explained as she sat down on the sofa to watch the evening news. “I’m watching the girls.”

“Where are they?”

“Playing in their room.” She could tell this wasn’t a social call. “What are you doing here?”

“He said a little obliquely, “I’m here to watch the news with you.”

Her face lit with understanding. “The pictures! They’re out.”

“Yeah. Leslie called from Channel 6. It’s going to be their lead story.”

Wade looked at the TV, and then put two and two together and gave him an arch look. “And you’re here to keep me from seeing them.”

“Yup.”

“Quinn, I have the right to see them.”

“Yeah, you do. But they’re really bad.”

“You’ve seen them?” she challenged, knowing that he couldn’t have yet.

“Wade,” he said emphatically, “I star in them. I know what happened. And I know you. You don’t want to see them. Or I should say, you want to see them, but if you do, you’re really going to be sorry you did.”

His reasoning was beginning to win her over, but the news broadcast began and she looked at the TV.

“Please, Wade,” he said plaintively. “When they come on, don’t look at them.” She looked at him uncertainly, a genuine fear growing in her stomach.

The news began with the anchorman. “A stunning turn of events in the ongoing struggle between the Freedom League and the Whitelaw Land Company came yesterday when agents from the California Bureau of Investigation arrested seven employees of the company’s Merced headquarters for the attempted murder of a white member of the Freedom League last Wednesday. The arrests have sent shock waves throughout the San Joaquin Valley and the rest of the state as both sides wait to see where the CBI’s investigation will lead. Here with the entire story is our Leslie Chase.”

The camera cut to Leslie, who was sitting next to the anchorman. She was as professional as always, but there was a tension undermining her usual calm. “I’ve been covering legal news at Channel 6 for three years, and regular viewers know that, while I’ve reported on some highly charged and emotional stories in the past, I’ve always striven to be as detached, and objective, and professional a journalist as I can be. I’ve offered viewers the best writing and analysis that I as a reporter can produce.

“But the real power of television, which we are only now just beginning to realize as cameras become smaller and more portable, is in the images we can show you. You’ve begun to see this power with the recent coverage of the attacks by the so-called ‘African Freedom Fighters.’ After all, a picture is worth a thousand words.

“But the sequence of photos we’re about to show you are more eloquent and more devastating than any mere words I could ever hope to write. Journalists have to be tough—it’s a necessity in this line of work. But I must tell our viewers that the first time I saw these photos I was reduced to tears. They are extremely powerful, and their power comes not from their artistic merit or their beauty. Their power comes from the sheer, raw, ugly reality that they capture so vividly. Many of you will not want to see them. Some other news organizations won’t run them. But we knew they had to be shown, and that you had to be given the choice of seeing them. If their graphic nature forces you to close your eyes, perhaps even at the same time they’ll force you to open your eyes to see the reality that’s always been out there, the reality that we’ve all been afraid to see.”

At the end of the introduction, Wade didn’t realize she had Quinn’s hand clutched in both of hers as she looked in dread at the screen.

Leslie gave the background information about what happened, and then the first black-and-white photo flashed on the screen. It was the picture of Quinn taken “while someone could still recognize him,” pale and glassy-eyed, his death secured around his neck. Over a narration explaining the sequence of events and the significance of the background details, the successive nine photos showed his surprise, his panic, his fight, and his final, grudging defeat.

Wade did not see most of the photos, at least not clearly. The first she saw too well, and the next two she saw through her hands, and then the next two through her tears. The rest she did not see at all as she wept in Quinn’s protective embrace. The news story was over before she began to gather herself. Still nestled in his arms and, not looking at him, she said, “Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so.’”

He smiled, then kissed her on top of the head. “You know, all this crying over me could go to my head. I could get the impression that you care about me…a lot.”

She looked up at him, her teary eyes sparkling with a mischievous smile. “You should be so lucky.” She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and went to go check on the girls.

He watched her go with a wistful sigh. _Yeah, I wish I would be so lucky_.

The phone in the parish house began to ring within two minutes of the story airing on Channel 6, and it was still ringing after midnight. Quinn wanted to take it off the hook so he could get some sleep, but he dutifully took messages all night long, eventually giving up and sleeping on the floor in Elizabeth’s office with the phone on the floor next to him.

By Tuesday afternoon, the Freedom League had received no less than three hundred calls and promises of money and support. People stopped by in a steady stream, dropping off cash, offering to help, or simply asking what they could do. Elizabeth delegated the calls to Alice and the visitors to Francine while she took refuge in her office to gather herself.

She sat at her desk and listened to the hum of activity in the hall outside. She looked at Arturo, who was going through some of his notes. “We’re doing it,” she said, a little detached. “That snowball you talked about is moving so fast no one can stop it now.” She didn’t sound happy about this. Arturo looked at her, and he noticed that she seemed overwhelmed. She looked at him tiredly for a long moment. “Why me? Why am I supposed to lead this revolution? I’m just a small-time lawyer. I’m no crusader. I’m no revolutionary. How is it that this thing has sprung up around me, and all these people are looking at me, and asking me what to do next? I don’t understand.”

“All they needed was you.”

“No,” she countered firmly. “They didn’t need me, they needed _somebody_. And _you_ volunteered me.” He chuckled at that. “And just why is it that you keep thinking I’m capable of doing this? I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“I know you can do this because I’m an excellent judge of character. And the only reason you can’t see that you can do this—and that you _are_ doing this—is because you live in a society that punishes people for trying to change things for the better. After a while, even the best and brightest lose faith in themselves. All you need is someone who’ll gently take you by the hand and kick you through the open door.”

She idly regarded his shoes. “Those things better not be steel-tipped.”

He smiled gently. “Never.”

The moment was interrupted when Quinn came in with the news that so far twenty-seven groups wanted to perform in the concert on Friday night; he wanted to allow for at least forty, so they would need to start the musical entertainment by 5:00 p.m., or better yet 4:00, to make sure groups had more than a few minutes to perform. Elizabeth marveled at the number, and agreed to 4:00. Quinn went back out to continue his number crunching, and Elizabeth leaned back in her chair tiredly at looked at Arturo through half-open eyes.

“This is the rest of my life, isn’t it? I realized that this morning on our way here. This is never going to end. The only difference will be after March 1st it’ll just be me in this office, and not us.” He looked at her sadly, not knowing what to say. She got up and walked slowly to the door. “Well, let’s go see what the latest crisis is.” She opened the door and went out to face the bustle, as he sat in lonely silence and faced her empty chair.


	12. Chapter 12

What had started out as a fundraising picnic and concert quickly ballooned into a celebration of plurality and solidarity. Now that the fence had been torn down with the release of the photos, people and groups who had shown no interest in the Freedom League were lining up to be on the side of the angels. Quinn drew the line at forty groups participating in the concert, and he turned away at least ten disappointed latecomers.

As Elizabeth had predicted, the OAC—hidden behind an organization with a neutral name—suddenly announced a huge block party in downtown San Francisco, complete with free alcohol and prize giveaways. The stroke of genius was to set it up as a party celebrating the San Francisco Rams football team, which had just acquired a star quarterback in a surprise trade, and there was some concern that the party would succeed in siphoning off attention and attendance.

The publicity machine continued to roll. The newspapers printed stories about the lynching, with multiple sidebars about the arrests, the arraignments, region-by-region statistics on numbers of lynchings in the state—regions with a rural Whitelaw facility had the highest percentages of unsolved violence—and the multitude of allegations against the Whitelaw Land Company over the years.

Both daily newspapers wanted to run stories about Quinn, who had not been publicly identified, but he didn’t want the attention. His stated reason was that his continued anonymity would protect him from any hotheads who might want to finish the job the Whitelaw goons had started. There was also the same problem that had plagued the Professor in his dealings with the press—his lack of a past on this Earth—but he didn’t mention that.

However, Quinn’s anonymity, which was supposed to deflect attention back to the plight of Rembrandt and the others like him, had a perverse, opposite effect on the general public. The mystery man who nearly gave his life for the cause quickly became a mythic figure, an Everyman who had selflessly risen to the challenge of fighting oppression, no matter the cost. Quinn was just as glad not to be associated with something so much larger than life, and he happily remained in the background at the parish house. As he overheard two teenage girls exchange the latest totally erroneous gossip about the mystery man’s heroic efforts to free the oppressed, he felt a bit like Clark Kent hearing people talk about Superman, except he hadn’t done the super deeds to earn the hero’s reputation. He wondered if this was how the legend of Robin Hood got started, or King Arthur, or who knows how many others.

Before an inner circle meeting, when Quinn admitted to Elizabeth his confusion over the strange public fixation, she replied with great melancholy, “It’s easier for all those folks to focus on the one white man who survived instead of all the thousands of colored men who didn’t.” Quinn knew she was right, and he hated how unfair it was.

As he sat in silence during the meeting, he missed Rembrandt for the tenth time that day. Remmy would have found endless delight in teasing him about the girls’ gossiping and the public’s misdirected adulation. He sighed. He missed Remmy’s wisdom, his jokes, his songs. He even missed his complaining sometimes. For the tenth time that day, Quinn hoped Rembrandt was okay, and that their efforts were helping him. And, for the tenth time that day, Quinn prayed their efforts weren’t making things worse for him.

Rembrandt was retrieved from his cell around sunset. The timing rattled his nerves. What better time could there be to haul him off to his death than just after dark? But his fears subsided when he was brought into the same examination room he’d gotten to know well. The same man was behind the table, but there were only a couple of guards by the door. The observer with the ice blue eyes was also missing.

The man behind the table stood when Rembrandt was brought in, which seemed odd. And even though he was trying to look as cool as ever, his eyes shifted around the room more than usual. “We’re sorry about you being placed in solitary a few days ago. It was a mistake. Something happened, and we thought it was related to you, but it turns out it wasn’t.”

The man was obviously lying, but Rembrandt wasn’t going to say a word.

He continued, “We’re sorry. You’ve been treated unfairly. We’re going to try to make it up to you.”

Rembrandt wanted to laugh at this sudden slice of humble pie, but he kept a straight face.

“You already had dinner?”

Rembrandt nodded.

“Good. The boys will take you off to the showers. After you get cleaned up, they’re going to take you someplace special.”

Rembrandt didn’t like the sound of this, but he was soon out of the room. A shower, shave, and fresh set of clothes later, he was in the back of one of the company pickup trucks and heading out into the night. He tried to get his bearings, but once the truck passed the barracks, he was in unfamiliar territory. He could see the lights of the women’s compound off in the distance, and he was stunned when he realized the truck was turning in that direction. What the...? Up ahead was a small building in the center of the no man’s land between the compounds. He couldn’t believe it—they were taking him to the breeding hut.

When the truck stopped, Rembrandt was escorted through the door of the one-story building into a plain hallway. On his left, he could see what looked like a doctor’s examining room, only much larger. The most prominent feature in the center of the darkened room was an examination table with stirrups, like something he’d seen in a women’s clinic. As he realized grimly what the room was, he was led to the first door down the hall. His guards opened the door, and, with slight smiles, they pushed him through and closed the door behind him.

Sitting on a plush bed in the middle of the well-lit room was just about the most beautiful black woman Rembrandt had ever seen. She wasn’t wearing much, and she was giving him a particularly alluring smile. He shook his head. “Man, these jokers couldn’t be more transparent if they were made of glass and wore curtains.” And this was the first room next to the breeding room. According to Daniel and Thomas, hidden somewhere in here was a camera. That certainly made this “someplace special” all the more interesting.

The woman regarded him, waiting, and when he just stood there thinking about what a bunch of idiots these guys were, she frowned. “Well?”

His mind was elsewhere. “Well what?”

That wasn’t the answer she was expecting. She gestured towards herself. “You just gonna look?”

He realized what she meant. “Oh.” Standing there was rather insulting. He approached the bed slowly, then sat down at the foot.

She hadn’t been expecting this, either. But if he didn’t want to make the first move, she could adapt. She rolled up onto her knees and approached him with a well-practiced smile. “So, what do you want?” she said as she put her arms around him from behind and began to undo the top button of his shirt.

As she kissed his cheek, he put his hands over hers gently and whispered, “Which wall has the camera in it?”

She froze. She scrutinized him for a long moment, and then as she leaned in to kiss his cheek just below his ear, she murmured, “On the right.”

He glanced around, trying not to be obvious. There was an abstract painting on the wall, which seemed out of place in so businesslike a setting. He slipped off the bed and went to that wall, sitting on the floor directly under the painting. He gestured for her to join him.

She pondered this development. She slipped off the bed and sat next to him. She tried to undo his top button again, but he took her hands in his and stopped her. He asked quietly, “What’s your name?”

With professional aloofness she said, “You can call me Polly.”

From the way she said it, he knew it was a line. “What’s your real name?”

She examined him. She hovered in wary silence, then, slowly, let her guard down just a notch. “...Grace.”

He smiled. “I have an aunt named Grace. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand to her to shake. “Rembrandt Brown.”

Her eyes flashed. In a hoarse whisper she said, “I knew it! I knew you was the one. They wouldn’t go through all this just for nobody.”

“What you talkin’ about?”

She frowned at him, and then the realization hit. “You got no idea what’s been goin’ on, do you?”

“What?”

She shook her head, then said quietly, “There’s people out there tryin’ their damnedest to get you outa here. They got a lawyer, and they’re gettin’ everyone together, and they’re havin’ rallies, and they’re in the newspaper, and the people here are scared shitless.” He couldn’t believe his ears. He knew his friends wouldn’t let him down, but this sounded big. “Did you see any of what happened Sunday mornin’?”

“Yeah, some people got arrested.”

She nodded. “They lynched somebody. But they got caught. And there was somethin’ about a camera, I didn’t catch all of it.”

He shook his head, then glanced up. “They sure like pictures around this place.” She chuckled, then put her hand over her mouth. “But how do you know all this stuff?”

She rolled her eyes. “Those stupid men, they always talk around us. They think we can’t possibly understand what they’re talkin’ about,” she said in arch tones. “But we’re the only ones who know what’s really goin’ on around here.”

He smiled at her with appreciation, then grew somber. “But who got lynched?”

“There was these two guys goin’ around the whole outside, checkin’ it out. They was watchin’ them for a coupla days. They caught up with them in the foothills. The colored one got away, but they caught the white one and lynched him.”

Rembrandt frowned. A white man was scouting the place out? It could only have been.... He trembled. “God, no, please, no, not Quinn.”

“You know who he was?”

It had to have been Quinn. Checking this place out was just the idiot kind of thing he’d do. “God, please, not Quinn.”

She put a hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s okay. They got arrested for attempted murder. He musta lived.”

He sputtered out a laugh in his relief, but he stifled the sound as best he could. “Thank You, God.”

She watched him with admiration. “Those’s some friends you got.”

He wiped the welled moisture out of his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

Grace watched him as he recovered. She regarded him with growing admiration, which eventually spilled over into a smile. “I couldn’t believe everything I heard about you was true. But I guess it is. You’re pretty special, too.” He looked at her questioningly. “People know who you are. Folks in here, they all know who you are. The white folks’s afraid of you, and the colored folks, you’re their hero.”

“Hero?”

“Yeah, you stand up to those people. You don’t act like they’s better’n you. You got dignity. An’ you got courage. Everyone wants to be like you. I mean, they talk about you like you’s George Washington or somethin’.”

Rembrandt frowned. “Are you sure they’re talkin’ about me?”

She smiled with admiration. “Yeah. They talkin’ about you. They talkin’ about you a lot.” She lowered her eyes. “So, you got all night here. Wanna do anything?”

He watched her gaze at the bed. Oh, man, what an offer. He glanced around the room and saw there was no light switch. It would be lights on all night, making it nice and easy for the people with the camera to catch all the action. Damn. He knew if they were setting him up for this, they must want evidence against him real bad. He wasn’t about to give it to them.

But that wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t. He couldn’t because of her. She might be willing to entertain him here on the floor, but she deserved a hell of a lot better than that. Who knew when they started little Grace in this life? He tried to drive out of his mind the image of the overseers walking down a line of ten-year-old girls, picking out the pretty ones and ripping them away from their sobbing mothers. They took away her name, her dignity, her future. They would’ve stolen her soul if they could’ve gotten their greasy hands on it. They trained her and the rest of their prisoners to do all kinds of shit little girls shouldn’t know and forced them to act like it was all normal by the time they joined “the workforce.” He couldn’t imagine what she’d had to do just to stay alive. The fact that she had some fighting spirit left.... The next time he heard some man call women “the weaker sex,” he was gonna punch that sucker in the mouth. God damn this place. Yeah, she deserved a hell of a lot better than any of this.

He took her hand. “Girl, you have no idea how tempting your offer is. No idea.” He kissed her hand, then patted it. “It’s breakin’ my heart to say no. And I know I’m goin’ to kick myself for the next five worlds. Maybe ten.”

She frowned. “Huh?”

He smiled at her. “Never mind. Let’s jus’ talk.”

Her frowned deepened. “Talk? You are one strange puppy.”

He smiled, then laughed out loud. “You got that right.” He patted her hand again. In a quiet voice, he said, “Tell me about yourself, Grace. What were you like when you were a little girl? What were your favorite games to play? Jacks? Jump rope? Make believe? My brother and I could play pirates twenty-four hours a day.”

As she studied him, he noticed a tiny, warm spark grow in her eyes. The hard shell of Polly seemed to fade away as she gave him the smallest of smiles. “My sisters and I were the hopscotch champions for four years straight....”

Rembrandt woke up alone in the bed. Grace was gone, and irritated guards were here to take him back to the men’s compound. He did not want to get up out of this incredibly warm and comfortable bed, but they insisted.

It had been quite a night. He and Grace had talked sitting on the floor for a couple of hours, and then he’d caved in to the temptation of the bed—just for sleeping, however. Being on a real bed for the first time in he didn’t know how long was such a treat that he was asleep within seconds. He could read the annoyance on the guards’ faces as they drove him back to the detention building and took him to the familiar examination room. It was all he could do not to laugh when he saw the colorless disappointment on the face of his perennial examiner. “Well,” the man said, trying hard to hide what he knew, “I hope you enjoyed your stay.”

He was willing to play along. “I really appreciate it, but I guess bein’ in solitary took more out of me than I thought. Can I get a raincheck?”

The man failed to see the humor in that. “We’ve recently had an opening in one of the offices. You can read and write, can’t you?” Rembrandt nodded. “I’d like to offer you a different job, then. I think you might enjoy working in the administrative office.”

“Doing what?”

“Filing, helping out. Maybe someday you might even have a chance to drive one of the facility cars.”

Oh, yeah, Rembrandt thought, something is _definitely_ going on. “Sounds good to me.”

“Good. Henry’ll take you there when you get cleaned up.”

After yet another trip to the showers and another set of dungarees—these ones new, he noticed—Rembrandt was taken to the compound administrative office, where he was put to work doing some light filing. It was boring, but it was infinitely better than the fields. And this way he might be able to find out more about why things had changed so much in the last couple of days.

When he was taken to the mess hall to have lunch—the usual faces were gone, as the people he knew were in the fields or at the processing plant—he was the center of attention, even though no one was obvious about it. People he didn’t know were saying hello to him, the cooks gave him better portions—in fact, the food looked better than usual—and men he didn’t know made a place for him and welcomed him to join them. He was astonished. Grace was right, they thought he was some kind of hero. The talk at lunch was simple while guards were nearby, but as soon as they walked past, the men quizzed Rembrandt about what was going on, what he’d done, and why things had suddenly gotten better. They said the rumor was Mr. Whitelaw himself had come to the compound—something he hadn’t done in more than twenty years—and Rembrandt had told him off about how bad things were and he’d actually listened! Under their cross-examination, he told them the less dramatic truth about his encounter with Whitelaw, but they still answered with grateful hallelujahs and thanks to God. The glory days were coming, they exclaimed, and it was all because of Rembrandt. Humbled, Rembrandt was the most grateful of them all.

The rally on Friday had grown into a behemoth. Most of the church and civic groups came in buses, but parking around Buchanan Park was still tied up for a twelve-block radius. When the rally had been smaller in design, the idea had been to have attendees bring food for a potluck meal, but when the crowd grew from five hundred to a thousand to five thousand to nearly ten thousand, all thoughts of a communal meal disappeared faster than the parking spaces. Elizabeth wanted to promote at least some sense of community, so she organized her usual lieutenants to go around and create “mini-potlucks” at various parts of the park, and they met with some success.

Elizabeth watched the festive chaos around her, still a little overwhelmed by the turnout. She saw several news crews from TV stations, but she decided not to go after them; if they wanted to talk to her, she was available, but she wanted the rally itself to be the center of attention. Wade brought her a plate of food, which she tried to turn down because she was too busy, but Wade insisted and forced her to sit and eat. She was grateful for the few bites she managed to get down before another interruption pulled her away.

When she returned to her place, she found Avram Pistotnik waiting for her. She gave him a hug, then settled tiredly into her chair and resumed her meal. “Forgive me, Avram, but I need to eat before I pass out.”

“There’s no sense you should starve and miss your own party.” He looked around at the joyous gathering, then gave her a wise smile. “I never thought I’d see this. All these people, standing up to the OAC. And the traffic jam getting to this place! Thousands won’t even be able to get here. You’re doing it, my friend. You’re setting your people free. Are you sure your name isn’t Moses?”

She fired a quick squint of disapproval at him. “Don’t you start with me.”

Before she could get another bite eaten, Arturo arrived. “I’m sorry to interrupt. It’s nearly time for the music to begin. Francine wants you to welcome everyone.”

She looked at her plate, she looked at Wade, and then she looked at Arturo. “If I’d wanted to be a star, I would’ve been in vaudeville.” She eyed him impatiently. “Did you save seats for us?”

“Fourth row center.”

“All right. I’ll say hello. And then I’m going to come back here and eat in peace and then I’ll join you when I’m good and ready. Is that all right?” Her last comment was a statement rather than a question.

“It’s perfectly acceptable.”

“Good.” She stood up wearily and joined Arturo for the walk towards the outdoor stage. Wade could just hear the beginning of their conversation as he said to her, “You’re certainly petulant.”

“It’s one of my many charms.”

“You know, my dear, I don’t think ‘charms’ means the same thing to me as it does to you....” Her laughter carried back to the table.

Elizabeth’s welcoming speech to the thousands in the amphitheatre seats was short and sweet. She thanked them for coming, and she thanked them for the wonderful sense of a larger community that they were building by being here. She also reminded them that this was a fundraiser as well as a soul-raiser, so contributions to the designated receptacles would be greatly appreciated. “The people who’ll be performing now are here to raise your spirits. So, sing along, dance if the spirit moves you, and enjoy yourselves. And send up a prayer for all those who can’t be here with us.” She handed the mistress of ceremonies duties to Francine and moved quietly off the stage as the choir from her church assembled to get the entertainment started.

The musical performances were varied and heartfelt. Groups ranged from gospel choirs to small folk music groups to taiko drummers to a mariachi band. The atmosphere of the concert was festive and inviting, and even when the audience didn’t know the music, they could usually be counted on to clap in time with the performers. When they did know the music, people were singing along.

Elizabeth joined the Sliders about half an hour into the performances, slipping into the saved seat between Arturo and Wade as another gospel group finished and received its applause. “I’ve been talking to the TV reporters. They said something interesting. It seems the OAC party is pretty much of a bust. Maybe two thousand people, and with all that free beer flowing, everyone’s just waiting for some sort of fight to start.” She looked at Quinn, who was sitting on the other side of Wade, and who was fidgeting with the collar on his sweater. It was a beautiful Irish cable sweater borrowed from the donated clothes. It had seemed like a good idea to wear something nice to the rally, but the high collar on the wool sweater was scratching against his healing rope burns and making him nuts. “You okay down there?”

“I’m going to be very glad when this is over.”

Wade took a quick peek at his neck under the sweater. “Another week and you can probably wear regular collars again.”

“I can hardly wait.”

As the applause waned for the departing musicians, Francine went to the microphone. “Well, talk about a tough act to follow. Before we go any further, though, I’d like to acknowledge someone very special in the audience this evening. Most of you don’t know his name, but if you’ve been watching the TV news or reading the newspaper lately, you know his face. He’s a very courageous young man, and we’re very honored—and grateful—to have him with us tonight. Quinn.” She pointed to him and gestured for him to stand.

He reacted with bewildered horror and stared at the others, who all smiled at him. Reluctantly, he stood up. When the people in the audience saw him, a wave of recognition, signaled by gasps and exclamations, spread out through the crowd. A spattering of applause erupted, and soon it was a thunderous ovation of applause and shouts. He was mortified, but the acclaim grew to a standing ovation. He could see Francine gesturing for him to join her onstage, but he really wanted to hide under the bench. He looked at the others again, and they were beaming at him and gesturing for him to go. With leaden feet, he slowly made his way to the aisle—surprised by pats on the back and words of gratitude from strangers—and then went up to the stage and joined Francine. She gave him a hug, and he said without rancor, “Why are you doing this to me?” When she stepped back, he saw her smile, and she gestured towards the microphone at center stage. He really wanted no part of this, but it was out of his hands now.

The ovation was deafening and seemingly endless. He started to get a little queasy. He hadn’t been the center of so many people’s attention since...well, since he’d almost been killed. He really, really didn’t like this. But for everyone else’s sake, he had to tough it out. He gestured for the applause to stop, but everyone ignored him. He looked at them with frustration, and he heard Francine say above the clamor, “Get used to it, Quinn!”

He had no intention of doing that. This wasn’t about him. It was about the who-knows-how-many thousands of black men who died, not about one white man who didn’t. Why didn’t people get that? He was just some stupid jerk who was lucky enough to get rescued in time. He hated this.

He heard footfalls behind him, but, after a moment of panic, he realized it was just the next choir taking their places onstage. He gestured to the audience for silence again, and this time enough people heeded that the ovation ebbed, then finally ceased. He waited until everyone was back in their seats, and then he realized he had no idea what to say.

“I want to thank....” He cleared his throat, acutely aware of how scratchy it was from nerves as well as his injury. “I want to thank everyone for coming this evening. It really means a lot to me, a lot to us. I know all of you are here for your own reasons, not just for Rembrandt. But it really is very courageous for you to come here. ...People keep acting like I’m some sort of hero. I’m not. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I was lucky enough to live to tell about it.” Echoing in his ears were his pleas to his executioners that they couldn’t do this to him because he was white, and his shame burned deeply in his heart as he looked at all those faces gazing at him with admiration. “Really. There was nothing heroic or courageous about it. The real heroes are the people who rescued me. They knew what they were getting into, and they still came in anyway. I mean, they’re my heroes.” There was a small echo of applause, but it faded as everyone wanted to hear him speak. “...And so are you. You know how important it is to be here. And you, and all the people who tried to be here but there wasn’t enough room, it’s your courage and determination that’s going to change things. You’re going to make it so that, as strange as this sounds, someday no one’s going to have to be afraid anymore.” He didn’t know what else to say, and, after a pause, he stepped back from the microphone.

The response was thunderous. To a person, the ampitheatre audience was on its feet, clapping and shouting. His humility made him all the more heroic in their eyes, as did his uncomfortable reaction to their acclaim. He looked at Francine, who was beaming at him and applauding along with the rest. He thought about leaving off the back of the stage and finding someplace to hide. But then he saw Wade. She was standing with the others, applauding. Her face was radiant, and her eyes full of respect and love. How annoying, and how wonderful. Why didn’t she ever look at him like that when they were alone? Never mind. He had to go to her. He made his way back down to the aisle and returned to his seat, once again running the gauntlet of thanks and congratulations. He sat beside Wade and heaved a great sigh. She took his hand and held on tight, which pretty much made the whole ordeal worthwhile.

The choir that had assembled behind Quinn as he had talked began to sing, and Wade’s face lit with recognition. “I love this song.” She began to sing along: “‘All day, all night, angels watching over me, my Lord, all day, all night, angels watching over me....’”

Elizabeth wasn’t singing along. She couldn’t even hear the choir. She was staring hard at Wade. “You know this song?” Wade was silenced by the intensity of her searing gaze and nodded slowly. Elizabeth looked at Quinn. “Do you know this song?”

He sort of knew it, although he didn’t know all the words. He nodded.

She turned to Arturo. “Do you know this?” He gave her a slight nod.

She stared ahead at nothing, her mind roaring at full bore, and then the realization hit her so hard, her long shudder shook the bench they were sitting on.

Arturo took her hand as Wade asked her, “Are you all right?”

Her astonished gaze traveled from Arturo, to Wade, to Quinn, and back to Wade. “I have never known a white person who knew this song. ...You really are from another dimension.” She looked in bewilderment at the two, then at Arturo, who offered her a confirming nod. She stared at the singing choir again, not seeing or hearing them. “Oh, my God.” Arturo patted her hand and said nothing, letting her realization sink in at its own speed.

A welcome distraction came as the choir finished and a klezmer band took the stage. Rabbi Pistotnik introduced the group and explained briefly what klezmer music was, and then he smiled down at Elizabeth. “We very happily share our music with all of you. But in particular our musicians play in honor of my dear friend Elizabeth, who reminded me, as she has reminded all of us, of one very simple, powerful truth— _Ale Brider_ , we are all brothers.”

The joyous rendition of _Ale Brider_ that followed was strange and new to most ears, but the infectious rhythms soon had the aisles filled with dancing people. Wade was on her feet and, despite a plaintive cry for help to Arturo and Elizabeth, Quinn was soon dragged off to join the dancing crowd.

Surrounded by the buffer of the music, Elizabeth squeezed Arturo’s hand. “I’m sorry, Max. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you.”

He patted her hand. “That’s quite all right.”

“...And I’m really sorry about what I said on Monday. About your not being here after the 1st. I was in a lousy mood anyway. But that’s no excuse. ...I didn’t understand why you had to leave. I thought you wanted to have a handy excuse to exit. ...I thought you wanted to leave, not that you had to.”

He stroked her hand soothingly. He searched for something intelligent and comforting to say, but the words eluded him.

She eyed him with a fiery determination. “And I swear, I will do everything in my power to get Rembrandt out of there as soon as is humanly possible. By March 1st, come hell or high water, he’s going to be a free man.”


	13. Chapter 13

On Monday morning, Wade hurried to the parish house when she got the phone call from Arturo asking for her to come as soon as possible. She found Quinn and the Professor waiting outside Elizabeth’s closed office door, Quinn twirling the car keys absently. “What’s going on?” she asked.

Arturo answered, “We’re about to become part of ‘a little Georgia hardball.’” Wade frowned her question at him. “I haven’t completely divined the way the legal system works here, but I have figured out a few things. Since laws don’t cover Mr. Brown’s situation, we have to go through civil court, not criminal, in order to sue the Whitelaw Land Company to get him freed. And in civil cases, judges have a tremendous amount of power. Simply put, if you want to take someone to court, you have to get a judge’s permission to do so. Judges are the ones who tell the Clerk of Courts which cases can be heard. With most things, getting permission isn’t an issue. But with cases that challenge slavery, the entrenched powers that be have a great interest in keeping slavery cases out of the courts. That means it’s virtually impossible to get to the Clerk of Courts and get a hearing.”

“Unless you play a little hardball,” Wade finished for him.

He nodded. “Precisely.”

The door to Elizabeth’s office opened, and she appeared, the picture of determination and confidence. “Ready to go?”

Quinn tossed the car keys in the air and caught them firmly. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

The trip to Stockton took about an hour and a half, and the entire strategy was laid out before they arrived. Quinn was in charge of the 35mm camera and Wade was ready with the tape recorder as they entered the office of Judge Richard Samuels in the Stockton County Courthouse. The four entered calmly and without fanfare, but the weekend’s worth of publicity about the rally had made all of them familiar faces, even in another town. The young receptionist stared in surprise at the sudden sight of famous people assembled before her.

Elizabeth spoke with a calm authority. “We’d like to see Judge Samuels, please. We’ll wait.” She made no effort to sit down in the available chairs.

The receptionist stammered a moment, then looked at the appointment book before her. “Uh, do you have an appointment?”

“No,” she answered, glancing down at the book, “but since he has no appointments this morning, I’m sure he can see us. We’ll only need about five minutes of his time.” Again, it was her calm assurance, rather than any strident demands, that commanded attention.

The receptionist looked at her, then at the others assembled around her. Her gaze came to rest on Quinn’s camera, which he had ready in his hand but wasn’t pointing directly at her. “I know he’s busy this morning. I need to talk to his assistant.” She got on the phone and spoke with someone, asking if the judge could be bothered. As she spoke, she didn’t look at the group as she tried, ever so casually so no one would notice, to move a stack of papers on the desk’s glass top to a position next to the phone.

Quinn and Elizabeth exchanged a small glance, and he leaned in to the receptionist. He said quietly, “Why did you move those papers?”

She was still on the phone and looked at him blankly for a moment. “Huh?”

“Those papers,” he said in a soft voice. “Why did you move them?”

She looked at the stack, stymied. “Oh. Well, I, uh, I have to work on them next.” A voice in her ear made the receptionist start, and she thanked the person on the other end of the phone and hung up. “Um, I’m sorry, he’s already got someone in there. And they think it’s going to be a long time.” She looked at Elizabeth as she spoke, but she shrank with annoyance as Quinn came around to her side of the desk and started looking at all the pieces of paper under the desk’s glass top. There were lists of holidays and phone numbers, the usual desk impedimenta. She glared at him. “Do you mind?”

He was as pleasant as could be as he said, “I was just looking at all the stuff here, and wondering what it was you were covering up with those papers.”

Her flash of anger was more than mere indignation over a violation of her personal space. “Excuse me?”

As she was glaring at Quinn, she didn’t see Wade’s reach for the pile of papers until it was too late. She pulled them back, revealing two typed notes under the glass next to the phone. After a gasp of surprise, the receptionist put her hand over the notes. Quinn calmly took a photo of her with her hand on the desk and then took a photo of her hand—now both hands—over the notes in question. She fumed at them, but Quinn leaned in and said with practiced calm, “Look, we know you just work here. You’re not responsible for office policy. But you really don’t want to be involved in this any more than you have to.” There was no threat in his statement, only a sincere concern for her that took the steam out of her anger. She looked at her hands, then at his camera, then at the others watching her without recrimination.

As she pondered her choices, Quinn knelt next to her in order to meet her eye-to-eye on the same level. As much as he disliked his instant celebrity, it did have its advantages. He said in a voice barely above a whisper, “Do you know who I am?”

She looked at him silently, her wide eyes showing that she did and that she was now completely unsure of what to do.

“Because, that means you know what they did to me. And without even batting an eye, your boss freed on bail the men who did it.” His quiet voice and steady gaze were casting a seductive spell over the last of her resolve. He put his hand on the edge of his turtleneck’s collar. He whispered, “Would you like to see what they did?”

She closed her eyes, and he withdrew his hand from his collar.

He said in a whisper that only she could hear, “You have to decide whether you’re on our side, or whether you’re on theirs.”

The young woman’s sadness grew as she looked at her hands, and they wondered if she might start crying. Slowly, silently, she pulled her hands away and rolled her chair back about a foot from the desk.

Quinn stood and looked at the notes under the glass as Elizabeth joined him. The notes she’d been hiding were two lists: a list marked “Colored Lawyers,” and a list marked “People to Ignore.” All of the names from the “Colored Lawyers” sheet were on the second paper, along with a few other names Elizabeth recognized as abolitionists, reporters, and liberal members of the state legislature. Quinn quietly took a photo of the papers under the glass. Elizabeth thanked the receptionist, who didn’t acknowledge her.

Within moments, a man appeared from the back and quickly surveilled the scene. He obviously didn’t like what he saw, and he took up a defensive posture. “Yes? Is there a problem here?”

Elizabeth said, “We’d like to see Judge Samuels for a few minutes.”

The man had no interest in letting them past. “He’s busy, Miss Speas.”

The snarl in the man’s voice as he spoke her name made it clear he was beyond diplomacy, but there was no reason to be uncivil. Wade quietly turned on the tape recorder and held out the microphone as Elizabeth said, “You have the advantage of me, sir. May I ask your name?”

“Mr. Jenkins,” was all he said, frowning at Wade and the microphone. He glanced around. Quinn had the camera ready. Any attempt to interfere with the tape recorder would be captured on film.

Elizabeth’s voice was calm and sure as she said, “Mr. Jenkins, since you know who I am, you probably know why I’m calling. I need Judge Samuels’s help to get an appointment with the Clerk of Courts so I can get a hearing on the matter of Mr. Rembrandt Brown.”

He looked at all of them, trying to figure out this strange tactic, then said simply, “The law doesn’t cover cases like his. You know that. You know the judge can’t help you. Your trip here has been a waste of time.”

“It is true that this case does fall between the cracks of the legal system. But it’s not true that the judge can’t help us.” The intensity of her gaze increased a notch, even if the emotion in her voice did not. “Over the past four years, I’ve tried to contact Judge Samuels nineteen times regarding legal matters in his district, and not once has he helped me, returned my phone calls, or even acknowledged that I exist.” She pointed at the desk next to the phone. “I always knew this list existed. Although it’s nice to have proof, finally. And since Judge Samuels and I have never had any sort of interaction whatsoever during the twenty years I’ve been practicing law in the state of California, I can only assume I’m on the ‘ignore’ list solely because I’m a negress.”

He glared at her.

She continued, “Mr. Jenkins, what worked in the past isn’t going to work anymore. People can no longer ignore what they don’t like. Now, I’m a fair person. I’m going to give Judge Samuels a choice of two options. He can either get me an appointment with the Northern California Clerk of Courts, or I can share with the local media—including a few reporters on his ‘ignore’ list—the interesting fact that the judge who so speedily granted hearings and bail to the men who attempted to murder this young man in cold blood,” she gestured to Quinn, “this same judge _twice_ refused to talk with me, five weeks ago on the phone and today in person, simply because I’m colored. Given the current climate, if he chooses the second option, I can well imagine Judge Samuels would find himself suddenly at the center of a great deal of unwelcome attention.” She regarded him civilly. “Please convey these two choices to his honor and let him know we’re waiting for his answer.”

Jenkins was furious, but without a word he left on his errand. Five minutes later, he reappeared, still steaming but reined in. He snapped at Wade, who still held the microphone to the tape recorder, “Turn that thing off.” After a glance at Elizabeth, Wade obeyed. He snarled at Elizabeth, “You can go to the Clerk of Courts. They’re waiting for you.”

The representative of the Clerk of Courts in Sacramento was indeed waiting for them when they arrived an hour and a half later—waiting, but apparently not at all sympathetic. The dowdy woman of forty who greeted Elizabeth with a chilly recognition led them to her desk, where she had a massive, hand-written scheduling book for all of the judges in the northern half of the state. “I’ve been going over the schedule since I got the call from Judge Samuels’s office,” she said with much more starched professionalism than necessary, “and the first available slot I can give you in Sacramento is 2:00 p.m. on September 12th.”

Arturo couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “I’m sorry, did you just say _September_ 12th?”

“Yes,” she said archly, “with Judge Simonson. I did have an opening in June with Judge Harkness, but I thought that since your case is based in the San Joaquin Valley, you wouldn’t want to go all the way up to Eureka.”

“Seven months?” Arturo asked, beginning to lose his composure. “The soonest you can get us in is seven months?”

The clerk was obviously enjoying his growing distemper and said smoothly, “Sometimes the wheels of justice move a little slower than some people would like.”

Before anyone could stop him, Arturo blew his top. “This is outrageous! One of the main pillars in the American legal system is the right to a fair and speedy trial. The thugs who tried their very best to kill my friend had hearings within twenty-four hours of their arrests and were free on bail fifteen minutes later. And yet you, for no other reason that the color of this man’s skin, would allow a _kidnap_ victim to languish in the custody of his kidnappers—who have no interest in his welfare, or even keeping him alive, for that matter— _for seven months!?!_ ”

His outburst had exactly the opposite effect of what he hoped, as the woman glared icily at him. “I’m sorry the American legal system is so _inconvenient_ for you.”

Elizabeth patted Arturo’s arm and gently eased him to the side. Their run of good luck had officially come to an end. She looked at the clerk as patiently as she could. “All we need is a preliminary hearing. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Surely you’ve got something next week.”

The clerk eyed her, sizing up the unspoken threat in Elizabeth’s sureness. “I can get you June 4th with Judge Harkness.”

Elizabeth didn’t skip a beat. “You know, obstruction of justice charges are always so nasty for judiciary employees to have on their records.”

Now that the threat was spoken, the clerk thought better of her plan of attack. She paged through the huge book slowly, perusing the great pages with their many scribbled notations. Elizabeth squinted at the page, but she couldn’t read the small handwriting and opened her purse to find her reading glasses.

Arturo was behaving himself again and approached the book attentively. Each page represented a day of the court calendar, and the judges’ names were written down the left margin, with their hours blocked off for particular cases. He noticed there were a great number of cases scratched out of one particular judge’s row, and he pointed at it. “What about this one?”

Elizabeth looked up from her search for her glasses, berating herself when she realized she’d left them at the parish house, and tried to read the judge’s name but couldn’t. “Who is it?”

The clerk looked at the judge in question, and a small smile crept across her face. “Let’s see....” She paged back through March into February, but all the remaining February dates were filled. She slowly turned to page to March 4th. “Monday, March 4th at 10:00 a.m.”

“No,” Arturo muttered, “that’s too late.” He concentrated on the page and didn’t notice the clerk’s odd glance at him. He flipped the page back to the 1st. “There, 10:00 a.m. on March 1st. What about that?”

Hiding her satisfied smile, the clerk took her pen and wrote their case into the book. “Done.”

Elizabeth asked again, a little more impatiently this time, “Who’s the judge?”

The clerk made no effort to hide her smug smile. “Judge Murphy.”

Dismay registered on Elizabeth’s face. “Sandra Murphy?”

The clerk smiled cattily. “And so convenient for you. Right in San Francisco.” She closed the book with a loud thump, then eyed Elizabeth to enjoy her moment of triumph.

The others had no idea what any of this meant, but it was clear Elizabeth was unhappy with the turn of events. She put on her best poker face as she said to the clerk, “Thank you for your services,” then led the way out of the office.

Once safely outside in the hallway, Elizabeth sighed as the others gathered around her with concern. Arturo asked, “What’s the matter? Did I pick the wrong time?”

“No,” she said distantly, still swallowed by their terrible luck. “It’s not that. It’s the judge.”

“Who is she?”

“Sandra Murphy. Her father was the most influential pro-slavery jurist in the past half-century. He was James Whitelaw’s best friend. When he died three months ago, his daughter was appointed to complete his term.”

Her gloom was contagious, and the Sliders shared a moment of pooled despair. But Arturo wasn’t ready to surrender quite yet. “Well, we know the father, but do we know what she’s like? I mean, is she a slave owner herself?”

“Most important people don’t own slaves directly anymore. They form holding companies and their names are buried in the paperwork. I have no idea if she owns slaves.”

“But what about her legal track record?”

She shook her head. “She’s a complete cipher. Even though she’s been on the bench for two months, she hasn’t handed down a single judgment. Mostly she’s been deferring her cases to get the parties to work things out between themselves.”

“Can we change the court date? Or arrange for another judge?”

She shook her head. “Once it’s in the book, only something extraordinary like the judge dying can change things.” She sighed. This was a disaster. “The best I can hope for is that she’ll hear the case in the first place—at this stage she still has the option of turning it down since our complaint isn’t formally recognized under current laws—and, if she hears the case at all, that she doesn’t defer it and does in fact hear it on the 1st _and_ we can keep the hearing going until 2:02 so, if worse comes to worse, you can all escape together.”

It was a depressingly long line of ifs. Arturo said, “Won’t that be awkward for you?”

“Well,” she said with a hint of a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “it means I probably won’t get to kiss you goodbye.” He smiled slightly as Quinn and Wade exchanged an embarrassed glance. “And it’ll have a major impact on the Freedom League. It’ll probably split down the middle between those who think y’all were angels and those who think you were a hoax.” She gathered herself. “Well, one battle at a time. Now that we’re in the book, we’ll be scheduled for a pre-hearing meeting with the judge and Whitelaw’s attorneys early next week. I have to be ready for that.” She looked at the others seriously. “That’s when the battle really begins. And it’s make or break.”

On Saturday morning, Rembrandt left the barracks with the others to head off to the weekly humiliation of the delousing and head shearing, but to his surprise he was pulled out of the line. He was taken to the compound barber—visits usually cost ten chits—and he was given his choice of how he wanted to style his hair. He felt bad about all this special treatment, but he wanted to look like himself again and told the barber what he wanted.

When he sat in the barber’s chair, he was stunned by his reflection in the mirror. He looked terrible. He knew he’d lost some weight, but after wearing those baggy dungarees for so long, it was hard to tell how much. Seeing himself now, he knew it had to be at least twenty pounds. And he looked so tired. Well, he’d earned it. Even with the sudden perks, this was still hell on Earth. Thinking about it that way, maybe he didn’t look so bad after all. But he knew none of this would be completely right until he was a free man again.

The evening before the pre-hearing meeting with Judge Murphy, Elizabeth was distraction personified. When it became obvious that she couldn’t concentrate on the work at the parish house, Arturo took her home and sat her on the sofa. He turned on the radio, gave her strict instructions not to move, and went into the kitchen to see what he could make for supper. When he heard her rummaging around in her briefcase, he came out and took it away from her. “No,” he said simply.

“Max, I’m going out of my mind here. I’ve got to do something.”

“Yes. Relax.”

She sighed. “You’re so calm because you have no idea what we have to accomplish tomorrow. I do. That’s why I’m a nervous wreck. I’m the one who’s in touch with reality here.”

He smiled and sat next to her. “I know this doesn’t mean anything to you, as he didn’t exist in this dimension, but I know you’re going to succeed because today is a very special day in our American history. Today is the birthday of Abraham Lincoln. The President who freed the slaves. A wise man and a great orator. And a lawyer. And I know that, wherever he is, he wants you to succeed. How can you fail with support like that?”

She smiled at him. “You are such a smooth liar. Have I told you that lately?”

“Madam, I’m not lying. I’m merely indulging in a bit of hyperbole. That’s a very different rhetorical strategy.”

She sat back and closed her eyes with a sigh as he stood and headed back to the kitchen, putting her briefcase by the door on the way. She said with a groan, “I’m letting a physicist tell me how to prepare my case. I need to have my head examined.”

Five minutes went by without incident, but then he heard her moving around again and came out to see that she had her briefcase open and her papers spread out on the table. He went to the table and took her by the shoulders. Despite her protests, he gently guided her back to the sofa, where he made her sit. “No more.”

“But I need to go over everything. Just once more. I promise.”

“Elizabeth, you know the case inside and out. You can quote it chapter and verse in your sleep. This is not a trial, it’s a pre-hearing meeting. There will be no speeches, you’ll simply hand over the evidence and confirm that no compromise is possible and this must go to trial.

“What’s infinitely more important than the facts is you. Your presentation. Your bearing. Your confidence. So, I have an assignment for you. I want you to sit here, and close your eyes, and visualize the meeting tomorrow. I want you to see all the details, all the people, everything. And I want you to see yourself convincing the judge to hear the case as scheduled on the 1st, and she’s very agreeable and sympathetic, and you know at the hearing that she’ll release Rembrandt unconditionally and immediately.”

She frowned at him. “This isn’t some sort of witchcraft, is it?”

“No, of course not.” He hesitated, then said, “At least I don’t think it is.” Her eyes flashed wide with alarm, and he relented. “I’m teasing. It’s called visualization. And I have no idea how it works—it comes from one of those ‘soft’ sciences—but I do know that it does work. Athletes swear by it.”

Her frown didn’t go away. “If ten athletes running a race visualize winning, it’s only going to work for one of them.”

He scowled at her. “All right. Just think of it as creating an M-field.” He smiled slightly. “You remember M-fields, don’t you?”

“Mhm-hmm. I’ve been living in one ever since you showed up.”

He smiled at that. “I want you to create an M-field of success for the meeting and the hearing. And to aid you in this, I’m going to leave you alone and go cook a very delicious dinner.”

He started back to the kitchen, but she gestured for him to come back to her. He returned to where he’d been standing, but she signaled him closer. He leaned down, a quizzical look on his face, until he was close enough for her to draw him into a long kiss. When she finished, she said, “Just trying to recapture that ol’ M-field magic.”

He smiled, then chuckled. “Get to work.”

“‘Yez, boss.’” She dutifully closed her eyes. He left, and he missed the skeptical squint she sent after him and her obedient return to trying to picture the impossible.

The next morning began badly. Two of the Packard’s tires were flat—one too many to be a coincidence—and as Arturo and Elizabeth waited for a cab to arrive, he couldn’t shake from his mind the thought that the vandalism could as easily have been a bomb wired to the ignition. Just as there had been a photographer staking out her house a few weeks ago, could there now be a sniper outside? Regardless of what she wanted, he would insist on twenty-four hour security for her and for her house from now on.

Things got worse when the judge’s appointment before theirs ran long and the four had to cool their heels for an extra quarter hour in the hallway outside the judge’s chambers across from the Whitelaw lawyers...all seven of them. The Sliders recognized Mr. Fortunatus from their opening broadside, and he gave them a frosty nod. He was by far the most junior of the team. Between them the men of the Whitelaw team had nearly two hundred years of courtroom experience, and they regarded Elizabeth and her entourage of legal nobodies with all the disdainful confidence of men who knew they were going to win, just as they always had and always would.

From her side of the hall, Elizabeth gazed at them and alternately tried to imagine making a deal with them and wondering what on earth she was doing challenging the best legal minds on the West Coast. Arturo knew that, underneath her poker face, her confidence was waning, so he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Picture them naked.” Her surprised laugh erupted and echoed down the marble hallways. She tried and failed to contain herself as the West Coast’s best legal minds glared at her with ripe indignation. She almost had herself back together when she looked at them again, and her laughter spilled out in a second wave. By now people down the hall were staring at Elizabeth’s injudicious outburst, and it took all her force of will to suppress a third attack of giggles. The large doors to Judge Murphy’s offices opened, and the lawyers from the overlong meeting came out with quizzical looks at Elizabeth. The sound of her laughter had obviously carried inside the offices. Oh, great, she thought as she stood up, there was nothing like a fanfare of raucous laughter to announce your presence to a judge.

The others stood with her, and Wade held Elizabeth’s hands encouragingly. “Good luck.” Quinn seconded that with a confident hand on her arm.

“Thanks. Hold a good thought.” She looked at Wade. “And do me a favor—you picture those guys naked so I don’t have to.” She rolled her eyes and turned towards the judge’s door.

Wade scowled at the Professor. “I can’t believe you said that,” she whispered sharply.

He shrugged his apology. “Obviously, that’s not a standard joke on this Earth. I promise I won’t speak again unless spoken to.” He turned and followed Elizabeth.

Both legal teams disappeared into the offices, and the large, heavy doors swung closed behind them. Wade and Quinn looked at each other with a mixture of hope and dread, and then settled onto the bench for a long, tough wait.

The two groups were ushered into the judge’s grand inner sanctum. Mahogany panels on the walls, massive bookcases that extended to the twelve-foot ceilings, and a gargantuan mahogany desk all created the atmosphere of the grandeur of the law. Sitting behind the desk was a small figure, a tiny slip of humanity who seemed even smaller in contrast to the large size of everything around her. She looked more like twenty-two than her actual age of thirty-two, and she had a defiant flounce of strawberry blonde hair cascading down her shoulders that gave her the appearance of a cheerleader rather than a jurist.

But, if her aspect was casual, her manner was all business. “Good morning,” she said as she looked over the paperwork her secretary was spreading out across her massive desk. “I apologize for the delay. Let’s get right to business, shall we?” She looked up at the two groups as they all settled into their seats, and her eyes settled on Arturo. “And why are you here?” she asked with a scowl.

“My name is Maximillian Arturo, and I’m—”

The judge interrupted pointedly, “I know who you _are_. What are you doing in here?”

“He’s my co-client,” Elizabeth answered.

Judge Murphy was still frowning at Arturo. “Can you practice law in the state of California?”

“No, your honor.”

“Then what are you doing attending this meeting?”

He glanced at the phalanx of Whitelaw attorneys to his right. “Well, given that it’s seven to one in here....”

“Mr. Arturo, this isn’t a baseball game. It’s not my responsibility to even up the sides.”

Elizabeth countered, “Since this is a civil case, your honor, he has exercised his right to be registered as lay co-counsel.” She looked at the other lawyers. “He has the right to be here, just as Mr. Whitelaw does, even if he didn’t choose to participate.”

Judge Murphy was still regarding Arturo with a disapproving gaze. “How much do you know about the American legal system, Mr. Arturo?”

“I know enough to respect the best of it.”

His answer seemed to please her, as it raised a small smile. “Do you know when to keep your mouth shut?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Good. Because that will include this entire meeting.” She looked at the two sides. “All right. Tell me why you’re here.”

Elizabeth got the first words in: “Employees of the Whitelaw Land Company kidnapped my client’s friend, my absentee client, Mr. Rembrandt Brown, and are holding him a prisoner in the corporation’s Merced Headquarters.”

The judge looked over the papers before her. “He’s colored?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“Does he have his freeman’s papers?”

“No, your honor. He’s from out of state and didn’t know about that.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse. You know that, Miss Speas.”

“Yes, your honor. And I’m sure my colleagues here will be quick to remind you that there is no legal protection for unregistered negroes and that therefore their dogcatcher squads—which they will assure you they don’t have—are free to do whatever they want.”

The judge looked at the other team. An elegant, graying man in his sixties in a dark gray suit and rich blue silk tie, who was the formal spokesman for the group, nodded. “The state of California has never extended any sort of legal protection for unfortunate people such as Miss Speas’s absentee client. Maybe someday there will be something in place. But until then, there’s really nothing to be done about cases such as this.”

“On the contrary,” Elizabeth said as she stood to offer a bulging folder to the judge across the large desk. The judge took it and opened it. “According to Braun v. Jackson, if there is sufficient evidence to prove that a negro was taken against his will in a public place, there are grounds for civil charges.”

The Whitelaw lawyers scoffed. The spokesman said, “That’s not what Braun v. Jackson says.”

“That’s not _your_ interpretation,” Elizabeth corrected. She looked at the judge, who was going through the papers in the folder. “We have sworn statements from seven eyewitnesses who can attest to the fact that Mr. Brown was lured to the kidnap point with a promise of a job, and he was forced into a truck owned by the Whitelaw Land Company and taken away. A kidnap point regularly used by Whitelaw employees for that purpose, I might add.”

Judge Murphy was reading one statement and nodding thoughtfully. “This looks pretty damning, gentlemen.”

Fortunatus muttered, “And how much did those witnesses cost you?”

Elizabeth replied to him archly, “My, you are desperate.”

Fortunatus was about to defend himself when another member of the legal team took his arm and forced him to heel. Elizabeth had predicted to the Sliders that the Whitelaw team would have designated specialists—the spokesman, the scoffer, the retaliator, the peacemaker, the silent authority figure, and so on.

Her prediction played out as another member of the group stood and puffed up with a suitable amount of indignation. “Your honor, your time and well as ours is being wasted here by this frivolous lawsuit. There is no legal protection for people like Brown. It’s that simple. And yet here are these people, who’ve taken it upon themselves to undermine the legal and social system that has served this country very well for more than three hundred and fifty years, just to suit their own personal agenda. If they really cared about their friend, they would work to free him by the usual, time-tested means, not run around stirring up hatred and division and trying to change the entire country just for the sake of one person. Their approach has led to violence, fear in the general populace, and an undermining of the social order unlike anything ever seen before in this state. And their egregious personal attacks on the fine people of the Whitelaw Land Company are in fact grounds for a counter suit of slander, libel, malicious mischief and incitement of rebellion.”

By the end of the man’s pontification, it was all Arturo could do not to shred him into bite-sized pieces. As the Whitelaw team murmured their approval of their colleague’s speech, Arturo looked at the judge, who was in turn eyeing him and waiting for his return salvo. He regarded her silently, heedful of her warning that he was to be seen and not heard, and keenly aware of the heat in his cheeks that surely must be casting across his face a hue of suppressed frustration. He would give a year’s salary to be able to go to the door and bring in Mr. Mallory and give these self-righteous idiots a look at his young friend’s neck and ask them to defend what their fellow Whitelaw monsters had done. Instead, he vented his frustration with a tense sigh and did not move.

Judge Murphy’s eyes trailed to Elizabeth, who was the epitome of dignified disagreement. The judge then regarded the Whitelaw lawyer, who still stood facing her desk.

“So,” the man said, “you’ll dismiss their action, of course.”

She regarded him without emotion. “I thank you, Mr. Lackland. I appreciate counsel’s attempts, on my behalf, to interpret the nature of Miss Speas’s motives. But as to who has been behind the egregious personal attacks in this matter, I will simply say that I’ve seen the pictures—all of them, including the ones that weren’t on the news—and counsel would do well to sit down and shut up.”

A stunned silence filled the room. The lawyer stood in bafflement and stared at her, his mouth opened slightly, and then he sat down with a numb glance at his fellows.

Arturo couldn’t believe his ears. Up until that moment, he had been positive Judge Murphy was on Whitelaw’s side. This was astonishing. ...Maybe they really did have a chance.

The judge held out her hand to the Whitelaw team. “Your paperwork?” Fortunatus handed over several folders. She put them on top of Elizabeth’s folder. “Well, as I’m sure most of you know, it’s my usual policy to put cases back to the parties to see if they can work something out between themselves. Arbitration is usually more satisfying than a decision handed down by a judge. But in this case, I can see that would only be a waste of everyone’s time. I’ll hear the case as scheduled at 10:00 a.m. on the 1st.” The Whitelaw team looked disappointed, and Arturo was about to celebrate when Judge Murphy focused on him sternly. “Mr. Arturo, are you familiar with what happens now?”

“No, your honor.”

“Now that the case is going to trial, between now and the court date, there will be no publicity whatsoever. No rallies. No media events. No exclusive interviews. No manipulating the public whatsoever. If I hear one peep out of you in a public forum, I’m going to toss this case into arbitration for six months. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Arturo?”

“Very clear, your honor.”

“Good.” The judge signaled for everyone to leave. As the Whitelaw team stood up, she regarded in particular a kindly man of seventy who appeared to be the designated “silent authority figure.” As she stood, she said, “And Uncle Frank, I’m going to have to ask you not to be part of the team on the 1st. It won’t look right.”

He came around the desk and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Anything you say, kitten. How are you doing?” She smiled and they chatted for a few moments.

Arturo sat motionless in his chair. Uncle Frank and Judge “Kitten”—they were doomed.

After the Whitelaw lawyers filed out of the room, Elizabeth and Arturo stood and followed them into the hallway. As the Whitelaw team departed without a word to their opponents, the pair found the anxious Quinn and Wade waiting on their bench.

“Well?” Wade asked as she and Quinn got to their feet. “How did it go?”

Arturo had no idea how to answer. “Well, there’s good news, and there’s bad news.”

“I’ll take the good news first.”

“We have a hearing with the judge on the 1st.”

The two reacted with joy. Quinn asked, “And the bad news?”

Arturo sighed. “Where do I begin?”

Elizabeth took him by the arm and started moving them down the hall. “It’s not as bad as he thinks. We’ll talk about it in private.”

Once they were in the spare loaner car that Quinn had brought from the parish house, Elizabeth told the two what had happened in the meeting and explained, “The fact that she asked her uncle not to be there is good. She at least wants to keep the appearance of impartiality.”

“If not the real thing,” Quinn lamented as he steered the car out of the parking lot.

She shook her head. “No, you see, this is a civil case. She didn’t have to do that. It may just be for appearances, but it’s a step in the right direction.” She leaned forward and rested her arm on the back of the front seat as she said eagerly, “But the real good news is something your best friend in there,” she said with a gesture towards Arturo, “said that I don’t think he meant to say. Remember when he listed what they could sue us for? The last one was ‘incitement of rebellion.’ That’s very big. Very, very big. Most large places like Whitelaw’s Merced headquarters are worlds unto themselves. We usually don’t know what goes on in there. They need that secrecy, to keep people from thinking about what life is like on the inside. But if he said they could sue us for incitement of rebellion, they have got a big problem developing inside one or more of their facilities. I don’t know if word of what we’re doing is getting in, or if Rembrandt’s doing something in there, but my guess is they’re afraid they’re beginning to lose control. And if those slaves rise up, they will have a crisis that they will never, ever be able to hide. It’ll be a disaster for them. And if it happens, you can start thinking about the beginning of the end of slavery in California. They’ll do just about anything to avoid that kind of trouble.”

Wade asked tremulously, “Do you think they might do something to Rembrandt?”

“At this point, no. He’s gotten too much publicity. Everyone at Whitelaw’s gotten too much publicity. He should be safe. ...I’m pretty sure he’ll be safe.”

Rembrandt was finishing up his stack of filing for the day when a stranger arrived in the office. He was dressed in a suit and had a disinterested, business-like attitude. Rembrandt wasn’t used to seeing outsiders, and he watched the man talk to the male clerk at the front desk and set his briefcase on the counter. He opened it and took out a piece of paper. The clerk nodded, then gestured for Rembrandt to join them.

As Rembrandt approached the desk, the visitor said, “You’re Rembrandt Brown?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m from the Bureau of Ownership Oversight and Regulation. I’m here to inform you that you’ve been subpoenaed to make an appearance in court in San Francisco on Friday, March 1st.” He handed Rembrandt a piece of paper.

Rembrandt looked at the subpoena. He was being sued? Who would sue him? Not the Whitelaw people. They’d just take a few chunks out of his hide. “What did I do?”

“Nothing. This is regarding the lawsuit filed against the Whitelaw Land Company to obtain your release.”

His heart jumped into this throat. They were doing it! They were getting him out of here! As the man closed his briefcase, Rembrandt asked breathlessly, “Can you get a message to my friends?”

The man shook his head as he took the briefcase off the counter. “I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to relay personal messages.”

The man turned for the door, but Rembrandt pleaded, “Please, just tell them I’m okay.”

The man shrugged with all the disinterest of a courier. “I’m sorry.” He left.

Rembrandt caught his breath. He was glad he was done for the day. There was no way he could go back to his work after this. He was getting out! He was going to be free! He looked at the clerk, who didn’t share his enthusiasm. There was no sense in rubbing it in. He pocketed the subpoena. He didn’t know a word of legalese, but he was going to read this thing over and over again until he knew it by heart. To his surprise, the clerk took the paper out of his shirt pocket. “I’m sorry. We need to keep that for our files.”

“But....”

The clerk turned and went into a back office. Rembrandt stood there numbly as the dinner bell sounded. Well, so much for that idea. Under the watchful eye of the office guard, he left and joined the others heading for the mess hall.

The next day was the quietest the parish house had been in a month. Except for a skeleton crew, all of the volunteers were sent home in compliance with the pre-hearing gag order, and aside from fielding occasional phone calls, there wasn’t much for Wade or Quinn to do. Elizabeth was in meetings all day, as usual, this time with the first wave of lawyers on _pro bono_ duty who offered their opinions and argued among themselves. Arturo sat through the first few hours of haggling, then took a sanity break and came out to sit with his friends. “How’s it going in there, Professor?” Quinn asked as he finished writing another phone message for Elizabeth.

He blinked his bleary eyes as he stretched his back and groaned. “Shakespeare was never wiser than when he wrote, ‘The first thing we’ll do is kill all the lawyers.’ Allowing for the occasional exception, of course.” He looked at Quinn. “And you thought scientists on opposite sides of a theory were scrappers. My God.” He rubbed his eyes, then looked at his wristwatch. “Well, there’s absolutely no reason for me to go back in there. Unless, of course, I _want_ my head to explode.” He looked at the two. “If I’m not very much mistaken, it’s Valentine’s Day.” That drew small smiles from both Wade and Quinn that went unnoticed by the other. “There’s nothing else for either of you to do here today. Why don’t you go out and have a pleasant evening?”

Wade didn’t need to be asked twice and was quickly on her feet. Quinn was slower to rise. “What’s that supposed to mean, Professor?”

He sighed a mighty sigh. “Like so many things in life, Mr. Mallory, it means what you want it to mean.” He stood up. “I for one am going to go for a very long walk and give my brain and ears a much-needed rest.” He nodded and left.

“Well,” she said brightly, “what do you want to do?”

He hadn’t yet completely reconciled himself to their recent retreat from another attempt at romance, and this proposed outing felt uncomfortably like a date. “I’ve got $2.14. That won’t get us very far.”

She smiled with satisfaction as she reached for her wallet. “I worked a couple shifts at the Family Market to help out, and Mr. Jones generously gave me a little spending money.” She proudly waved $10. “This can get us a pretty good meal around here.”

He liked that idea, a lot. “How about a steak? I’ve been living off donated food ever since I got back. It’s good for the budget, but after a while, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches just don’t do it.”

“Sounds great.” She was smiling at him again, with that sparkle in her eyes that was making him a little nuts. If only it really meant something. “I know just the place. It’s right on a trolley line. Shall we go?”

“If you’re paying, I’m going.”

She laughed and led the way.

Night had fallen by the time Arturo got back to Elizabeth’s house. After acknowledging the young men of the security watch on the front porch, he found Elizabeth preparing dinner. As she chopped vegetables, she didn’t notice his thoughtful expression. “I’m sorry I’m late. I decided I needed a good, long walk.”

“Yeah, those meetings can go on forever, can’t they? Where did you go?”

“Here and there. Mostly I wandered around downtown.” He looked at her seriously, but her attention was on stirring the vegetables in the saucepan. The number of pans on the stove was larger than usual. “This looks complicated. What’s the occasion?”

She smiled secretly. “Do you have St. Valentine’s Day in your dimension?”

He smiled with her. “Yes, we do.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’m making you a St. Valentine’s Day feast you’re never going to forget.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Go out and sit in the living room.”

“Madam, as you are well aware, I am quite capable of cooking a very fine meal.”

“Get out of here. This is women’s work.”

He eyed her askance. “How very sexist of you.”

She frowned at him. “‘Sexist’? _‘Sexist’_?”

He was examining the contents of one of the pans and reaching for a spoon to have a taste. “Oh, yes, that comes after the civil rights movement. First, it’s women’s rights, then it’s disabled rights, then it’s gay and lesbian rights, and then of all things it’s animal rights. You’ve got quite a history in store for you.”

Her frown of disbelief had grown with every item on his list. “Get out of my kitchen. I don’t care why. Just do it.”

He put down the spoon. “Yes, ma’am.”

She muttered to herself as he left the room. “Animal rights. Don’t you try and tell me that pot roast has legal protection where you come from.” She shook her head. “Animal rights. You’re making that up just to annoy me.”

Dinner was splendid and as memorable as she promised. They cleared the table and did the dishes together, and then they headed for the living room. But before she could sit, she became too impatient and retrieved her surprise from her purse. “I know you don’t need this, but time is so important to you on your trips, and I wanted to give you something to remember me by, so I got you this.” She watched closely as he opened the small box. He reacted with suitable surprise and delight when he saw the beautiful pocket watch and chain inside. He opened the watch and saw the inside of the cover panel was engraved: “To M. You’ll always be my man of the hour. Love, E.” She apologized: “Our names were too big to fit.”

He smiled tenderly at her. “This is beautiful. Beautiful beyond words. And, in fact, I do need a watch. This afternoon I pawned mine.” She reacted with astonishment as he reached into his jacket pocket. “To get you this.” He gave her a tiny gift box. She opened it and cooed when she saw the small pendent and chain. The pendent was a simple but elegant “M” surrounded by a delicate circle. As she fastened the chain around her neck, he explained, “‘M’ is for M-field, to remind you that you can accomplish anything you set your mind to.”

Her eyes glistened with tears. “This ‘M’ will always stand for Max.” She rolled her eyes, as much to keep her tears from falling as anything else. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

His thoughtful expression from earlier returned. “Yes, well...there’s something I have to tell you. ...I’ve decided that, even if we free Mr. Brown by the slide date...I’m going to stay.”

The astonishment on her face was more bewildered than joyous. “Have you told the others?”

“No. I only just decided this afternoon. I was going to tell them tomorrow.” Her surprise still didn’t turn into delight, and he was confused by her reaction. “I thought you wanted me to stay.”

“I do, I did, but...don’t you want to go home?”

“Well, that’s the real point. I have no idea where we’ll be going next. It’s not as if we slide into a particular dimension and then go back home. That was the original intention, but that broke down very quickly. We’re simply sliding from dimension to dimension with no control over where we go, how long we stay, or where we go next. We may never find home again.”

“So, you’re lost?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “Funny how you never mentioned that earlier.”

“Well, since you didn’t seem to believe in the concept of sliding in the first place, there was no point in going into the details.”

Again, what he expected to be great joy from her was thoughtfulness. “But don’t you want to try to get back to your family again?”

“I have no family. Not really. My friends are all the family I have.”

“Then, don’t you want to stay with them?”

“Yes, of course I do. But I want to stay with you more.” Her lack of enthusiasm was astounding to him, and his disappointment and confusion were coming out disguised as anger. “I’m sorry. Obviously, I misunderstood you. For the last month, I thought you were giving me every indication you wanted me to stay.”

“I do, but not at the cost of such sacrifice.”

“It’s not a sacrifice,” he insisted, “it’s my choice.”

“I don’t want you to give up the hope of getting home for me. Yes, I was giving you every indication I wanted you to stay. But I didn’t understand what the stakes really were. I just thought you kept talking about having to leave because you wanted a way out if you needed it. But now I understand. And I can’t ask you to stay.”

He was getting a little annoyed. “You’re not asking me to. I’m offering. I’m staying.”

“I don’t think you’ve thought this out.”

“Of course I have.”

“You’ve probably thought it out logically, but I know you, you haven’t thought it out emotionally. Yeah, it’s very easy for you to stand here now and say you’re staying when you have to stay, and you have a very focused purpose here of getting Rembrandt out. But how are you going to feel two, three, five months down the road, when your friends are gone, and you don’t have that all-consuming purpose anymore, and all you have left to do is stand around at the side and be my ‘boyfriend’?”

He couldn’t understand why she was rejecting him, and his hurt showed on his face. “I want to stay, Elizabeth.”

The pain in his eyes cut through her, and she needed a distraction. “Okay, Mr. Visualization.” She guided him to the sofa and made him sit. “I want you to sit there and close your eyes, and visualize what it will be like when your friends leave and you know they’re never, ever coming back, and all you’ve got left is no job, no purpose, and you’re stuck forever on this God-forsaken planet.” She looked at him intently. “If I’m the only reason you’re staying here, someday, even if you don’t want to admit it, you’re going to hate me for trapping you. ...And I couldn’t bear that.” She gave him a forlorn kiss. “Close your eyes. And you’ll see I’m right.” She turned quickly and went into the kitchen, leaving him more alone than he had ever been in his life.

By the time she finished putting away the dishes, she came out and found the living room empty. She hadn’t heard him leave, so she knew he’d gone upstairs. She brought in the young men of the security watch from the front porch and got them settled in for the night, and then she went upstairs.

She changed into her nightgown in the bathroom, then finished her evening regime and went into the bedroom without turning on the light. To her surprise, he wasn’t there. She went across the narrow hallway to the spare room she used as her library and guest room. The lights weren’t on, but she could see his silhouette as he sat on the sofa next to the window. He was turned away from the door, sitting at an angle on the sofa and looking out over the lights of the city as a misty rain softened the vista to a gray velvet blur. She came in and sat down next to him. He didn’t turn to face her, and she settled against his back and put her arms around him. She rested her chin on his shoulder and took in the view. “The city looks nice like this,” she said. He said nothing. “I keep forgetting I almost have a pretty good view from this room. I’m only ever in here at night. Maybe I should set up a little breakfast nook in here.” Again, he said nothing. “Maybe I should put in an indoor pool, too,” she said, trying to get some sort of reaction out of him. He gave her none.

It was time to cut to the chase. “Admit it, Max, I’m right.”

When he finally spoke, his voice was hushed. “No, you’re not.” She was hoping he’d look at her, but he continued his gaze out at the city.

He could be so gloriously stubborn, and while most of the time it came in handy, this was not one of those times. “Okay. Tell me what you’ll be doing a year from now if you stay. You can’t get a job because you don’t exist here. Your friends will be gone. You’re not going to fit in with any of my friends. So, you’re not going to have anyone to talk to. And once Rembrandt is free, this isn’t your fight anymore. Of course, you’d make a valuable contribution, but,” she tightened her embrace and said quietly, “Max, you can’t be who you really are. You can’t use any of your training. You’ve got this incredible body of knowledge....” She glanced at him. “And a pretty incredible body.” She saw him smile slightly in spite of himself. “But everything you know, everything that makes you tick, will be completely wasted here. ...You’ll always be an outsider, Max. I hate to say it, but that’s the plain truth of it. And I couldn’t bear to see you spend the rest of your life living on the periphery of someone else’s life. Even if that other person is me.” He said nothing, and this time she was glad.

She gazed out at the city. “I’d give anything if I could go with you.” He embraced her arms around him. “To see all those places, and do all those things.” She blinked a few times as tears rose in her eyes. “I want to see your home. I want to see where you live. I want to see that Cockaigne that could produce someone like you.”

“It’s no Cockaigne.”

“It sure sounds like one to me.” Her tears rose higher, and her voice began to quiver. “I want to go, Max. I want to go with you so bad. But I can’t go, because I have to stay here. Just like you can’t stay here because you have to go.”

He turned to face her as the first tear slipped down her cheek. Her pain was reflected in his face, and he gathered her into a comforting embrace as they shared their grief.

The steak dinner was excellent, and since it was still early and Quinn was feeling expansive, he treated for a movie. Movie presentations on this Earth were similar to how they’d been back home in the ‘40s, with an A feature, a B feature, a newsreel and a couple of cartoons. The quality was hardly that of the Hollywood they knew, but it was still an enjoyable evening out and a nice distraction from the legal matters that were no longer in their hands. It had been good to laugh at the silly jokes and boo the villain and get lost in a world that guaranteed a happy ending.

On the bus ride back to the Family Market, Quinn found himself running through a few calculations of the human kind. This had pretty much been a date. And Wade had certainly enjoyed herself. A kiss at the front door wasn’t completely out of line. Plus, he was really tired after such a good meal, and he wasn’t looking forward to the bus ride all the way back to the parish house. And he certainly wasn’t looking forward to another night on that too-hard, too-small cot. He’d proved himself a trustworthy bunkmate before...and of course his intentions were absolutely honorable...so what harm would there be in seeing if Wade would let him stay with her for the night? It was all very logical. And it was Valentine’s Day, he reminded himself with a smile. He decided it was worth a try.

They got off at the usual stop and walked the short distance to the store. Quinn thought Wade looked positively contented. He was definitely going to go for at least a kiss. Where it went from there was up to her.

When they got to the store’s steps, Wade gave him a pleased smile. “Thanks, Quinn. I had a really great time.”

“So did I.” He put his arms around her waist, and she caught her breath as he lifted her up to the first step. Her soft gaze at him was all the invitation he needed. He kissed her, and soon they were in a tender embrace. “This is a lot easier when you’re the right height.” She chuckled softly.

She noticed the sound of the car behind him first. Traffic was rare this late at night, and Derek’s attack on Leonard flashed in her memory. She pulled away from Quinn in time to see the car slow by the curb and a gun barrel emerge from the window. The man shouted something—neither heard what it was—and Quinn turned to put himself between Wade and the car as, with a shuddering explosion of noise, six rounds sprayed the air around them. The car zoomed away before Quinn could get a license number.

He turned to Wade to share his disbelief at what had just happened. But she wasn’t standing on the step. She was sitting down, huddled over. She had her hand on the top of her clavicle near her shoulder, and she was grimacing in pain as a red stain on her coat grew under her hand.


	14. Chapter 14

In the waiting area near the emergency room at Mercy General Hospital, Quinn was the picture of misery. Mr. Jones tried to reassure Quinn that even though this was a colored hospital, the care was almost as good as the white hospital across town. He also reminded Quinn that Wade’s wound was superficial, not much more than a scratch, just enough to draw blood. She’d be fine.

Quinn didn’t care. This was his fault. He was as much to blame for this as if he’d pulled the trigger. Why had he gone for the kiss on the front step? If he’d simply walked her inside, they would have been out of harm’s way when the car came past and probably nothing would have happened. No, he had to make a play and not pay attention to anything else.

But it was worse than that. The fact that she was even in danger at all was his fault. He was the one who’d dragged her off on this endless nightmare of sliding. He’d been completely irresponsible to ask her to come along when he knew nothing about the dangers, or the pitfalls, or even the way out. It was supposed to be fun. An adventure. A blast. He sighed. How many times had she nearly gotten killed, all because he’d been too impatient to test sliding thoroughly? He’d lost count. He had to admit it—he was bad luck for her. It hurt to think she would have been better off if she’d never met him.

His self-torture was interrupted when Arturo and Elizabeth arrived in a hurry. “How is she?” he asked breathlessly.

“She’s going to be fine,” Mr. Jones assured them. “Mostly she was just shook up.”

Elizabeth asked what happened, and Quinn relayed all the details. “It’s a fluke she got hit. They were obviously only trying to scare us. I mean, he was ten feet away and he missed with all six shots. And I was between her and him. She must have gotten hit by a ricochet.”

“He looked very heroic,” a familiar voice said and they all turned to see Wade walking down the hall from the emergency room. Her arm was in a sling, and the stain of blood on her jacket shoulder looked smaller than Quinn had remembered it. “He was standing there, protecting me from that hail of bullets. Like something out of a John Wayne movie.”

“Yeah, protecting,” he said glumly.

Elizabeth asked her, “Why did you come to this hospital? Why didn’t you go to St. Mark’s?”

Mr. Jones answered, “Wade insisted.”

She explained, “He tried to take me there, but I had no intention of going to a hospital where you couldn’t even come inside. Forget it.”

Arturo frowned at her. “That’s very noble, and potentially very stupid.”

She flashed him a defiant smirk. “Thank you.”

Arturo asked, “But, how are you?”

She shrugged, then winced. “Three stitches. Hardly a St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.” She looked at Elizabeth. “What happens with the gag order on this? The police took my statement while the doctor was stitching me up. But is any of this going to get in the paper?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Just the facts. There will be no context. If people recognize your name, they’ll get it. If they don’t, no.”

Arturo frowned. “Undoubtedly part of the motivation for this was to try to goad me into making some sort of public statement and earning the ire of the judge.”

Wade regarded him solemnly. “Professor, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not the center of the universe.”

He eyed her. She was still punchy from her misadventure, and he was willing to play along. “As a cosmologist, I’m in a much better position to understand my actual importance in the grand scheme of things.” He put a hand on her good arm. “But thank God you’re all right.” He turned to Quinn. “You gave your statement to the police?” He nodded. He said to the group, “Well, let’s all go home before something else happens.”

There was a pause as Wade looked at Quinn. Was he going to go back to the parish house, or was he going to catch a ride in Mr. Jones’s truck and see her home? He answered her unasked question when he turned to Arturo: “Can you give me a lift back to the parish house?” Arturo nodded.

Wade had to say something. Quinn looked wretched. He was more wounded than she was. “Quinn, it wasn’t your fault.”

His reply fooled no one. “Yeah.”

“It wasn’t.”

He nodded, then looked away and walked down the hall towards the exit. With last looks of concern, Arturo and Elizabeth followed.

Wade sighed, feeling utterly helpless. Mr. Jones put a gentle hand on her arm. “You ready to go?” She nodded and fell in step with him as they headed for the exit. He said with the wisdom of experience, “Quinn can’t help it, Wade. Men don’t like seein’ their women get hurt. It cuts real deep.”

“It goes both ways.” They went through the door into the parking lot, but when she looked for Quinn, she didn’t see him or the Packard. A great weight descended on her already aching shoulders. She was going to be all right...but why did she have the feeling that things would never be the same between her and Quinn?

Arturo’s relative importance in the universe was confirmed the next morning when several people identifying themselves as journalists called the parish house to get a statement from him about Wade’s shooting. He recognized none of the names the people gave, and one caller in particular was obviously trying to push him into saying something that could be published—and presumably used against him in the shadow of the gag order. He resisted his urge to give the caller a thorough dressing-down and opted for a “no comment at this time.” After the third call, he retreated to the relative safety of the parish house’s library and refused to go anywhere near the phone.

The next week passed slowly and weighed heavily on all the free Sliders. Hardest hit was Arturo, who was reluctantly forced to face that Elizabeth was probably right in her warning about his staying on after the slide date. While she was the focal point of endless conferences and strategy sessions, he was useless and usually excluded from the meetings. She was always glad to have his company and talk with him when she could, but she didn’t have much time to spare, and her hurried air only made it worse.

She’d smoothed through a potentially awkward situation halfway through the week when she found and returned the wristwatch he’d pawned to buy her necklace. Of course, she didn’t have the time to look for it herself; he knew she must have sent one of her growing legion of followers to scour all the pawn shops for it. She’d had it wrapped up as a nice gift, which made giving it back to him a little less painful. It had almost been a pleasant surprise. As much as he treasured the pocket watch, it did lose about a minute a day, and, in the rough-and-tumble of sliding, a lost minute could be a disaster. She had given it to him over dinner, and somehow she’d found the right words to make it okay. That was her gift, finding the right words, words of sincerity, not empty glibness, and she was discovering it more and more with each passing day. He took great pride in seeing how she was becoming more confident in herself and her abilities, and yet as he watched her grow, he was watching her grow away from him, and he was utterly miserable.

He wondered how much the other two had figured out. He’d noticed Wade watching him. He knew she’d sensed something had changed between him and Elizabeth, but she had the courtesy not to mention it. He in turn had noticed that the relationship between her and Quinn seemed strained of late. It wasn’t a return of their bickering from a few weeks ago, but instead an awkward chilliness that was unlike them. Perhaps it was the shooting. Quinn had taken Wade’s brush with danger especially hard. Arturo couldn’t figure out the details, and it was none of his business anyway.

Damn this Earth, with its roller coaster ride of dizzying heights and devastating lows. He had never wanted to leave a place so much in his life...and yet he dreaded the relentless count of the timer always pushing them closer to a farewell. Damn this Earth.

On the Thursday eight days before Rembrandt’s hearing, Quinn had to go to Stockton for the trial of the seven men who had been arrested for his attempted lynching. He didn’t particularly want the others to go with him, but Wade and Arturo had nothing else to do, so they came along as moral support.

The regional press was out in force—presumably for the novelty that a white man had been the intended victim—but the trial itself was a disheartening precursor of the more important hearing the next week. Before Quinn could even testify, the district attorney accepted a plea bargain that the seven defendants would plead guilty to reckless endangerment and disorderly conduct; they were sentenced to time served plus ten days in the county jail.

The D.A. explained to Quinn that no one would believe that they had actually meant to kill a white man that way—people would believe that they’d simply meant to scare him—and he was sure the jury wouldn’t convict them of attempted murder. It was better than nothing, the D.A. said. All Quinn could muster was an annoyed, “Be sure not to hit too hard when you slap them on the wrist, okay? You wouldn’t want to leave a mark.” Reporters came after Quinn for his reaction, but, mindful of the gag order regarding Rembrandt’s hearing, he declined to comment.

Sitting alone and silent in the back seat of the Packard, he simmered in a dark funk for the entire trip back to San Francisco as Arturo and Wade shared occasional concerned glances in the front seat.

On the Monday morning of what the Sliders hoped would be their last week on this Earth, Elizabeth solemnly gathered them for a meeting at the small conference table in the parish house’s main hall. “I just got a very interesting phone call from Mr. Fortunatus. It seems the Whitelaw Land Company has determined Rembrandt’s long-term value to them, and they’re willing to release him for a $2,500 compensation fee.” The others were stunned.

“How much do we have in the fund?” Quinn asked.

“Just over $20,000,” Arturo answered.

Elizabeth continued, “For them to take the initiative like this means they know they’re hurting and they may lose in the long run. But those boys don’t miss a trick.”

Wade said for her, “Because if we pay it, we derail everything we’ve started here.”

Elizabeth nodded. “So, it’s time for the three of you to take a long, hard look at this. Because I know how those boys operate. They want us to react quickly and emotionally. They’ve given us until 2:00 this afternoon to make up our minds. If we don’t take this now, the offer will be withdrawn. That makes this a now-or-never decision. You need to ask yourselves if you’re willing to gamble everything on the hearing on Friday, or do you want to bail him out and go for the sure thing?” She stood up and left, leaving them to face the decision on their own.

They pondered the dilemma for a few moments, and then Wade said, “Well, we have to do what Remmy would want us to.”

Quinn said, “You know he’s got to want out of there as soon as possible.”

Wade agreed, then said, “But you know how he felt about the slavery issue here. If we have a chance of making the dogcatchers illegal, or even banning slavery in the state, you know he’d want us to go for that.” Quinn nodded. “And there are thousands of people who are counting on us now. Tens of thousands. I mean, this has become a crusade. If we make a deal with the devil, they may never recover. And the Whitelaw people have to know that.” She was really beginning to hate those lawyers.

Quinn said, “What do you think, Professor?”

He said quietly, “I believe ultimately we have no choice. No deal.”

Wade closed her eyes and sighed. “God, I hope we’re making the right decision.”

Quinn said, “Maybe we can string them along a little bit, as if we’re trying to raise the money or something.”

“It’s worth a try,” Wade said, then got up to tell Elizabeth their decision. Quinn and Arturo sat in silence, each offering an unspoken echo of Wade’s prayer that they were doing the right thing.

The next morning, the other side fired its final salvo. Elizabeth had expressed some concern over what the Whitelaw camp might do if they turned down the deal, but she was completely unprepared for the shape of their counterattack.

One of the volunteers rushed into the parish house first thing in the morning, breathless and frantic. She had a piece of paper rolled tightly in her hand, but she would show it to no one except Elizabeth. When the two emerged from her office a few minutes later, Elizabeth was trembling and speechless with rage. No one had ever seen her like this, and the work in the parish house hall stopped as everyone stared at her. Arturo quickly steered her back into her office and sat her down. “What is it? Tell me what happened.”

Still beyond words, she handed him the paper the volunteer had brought in. It was a small poster, and it felt stiff on the back as if it had been pasted up somewhere. It was an open letter to the colored community, asking if they wanted to put their faith in someone who shouldn’t be trusted. Arturo read in horror as the letter went on to describe in some detail the attack Elizabeth and her fiancé had suffered many years ago in Georgia, but while all of the basic details were intact, the motives were completely twisted around: Elizabeth, the letter said, had been a party girl who specialized in entertaining large groups of white men, and when her fiancé found out, he hanged himself in despair; she’d tried to salvage some dignity by making up a story about a gang rape, but the local authorities knew the truth and never pressed charges. The letter went on to invite the public to decide whether or not she’d given up her whorish ways—after all, she was now illegally cohabiting with a white man. The letter concluded with a call for the good citizens of San Francisco to turn their backs on such a hypocritical slut and find themselves a worthier representative. It was signed “The Committee for a Moral Voice in San Francisco.”

Arturo was thunderstruck. This was the vilest thing he’d ever seen. When he found his voice, he managed to say, “Tell me what I can do.”

She was calmer now, more resigned than angry. “Nothing.” She took the flyer and folded it twice. “Belle said these were up all over town. White and colored neighborhoods. The damage has been done. We can only make things worse.” She stood up and picked up the piece of paper. “I’m going to go see Judge Murphy.”

“What can she do?”

“Nothing. But at least I’ll feel better.” She eyed him severely. “ _Do not_ take phone calls, Max. Do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Defending me is very loyal and very chivalrous and very, very stupid. I have to face this by myself.”

He stood. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” Her eyes softened. “I know you want to help. And the best way you can help me is let me do this the way I need to. I can’t concentrate on what I have to do if I’m worrying about you blowing up at the wrong moment.” He looked down in shame, and she came around the desk and put a tender hand on his face. “You’ll always be my knight in shining armor. But this time the damsel’s got to get out of her own distress.”

He said softly, “But there is one thing I must do.” He drew her into a comforting hug, which she gladly accepted.

She sighed lightly. “How can I put it behind me once and for all if they know?”

He gave her an encouraging gaze. “They can only hurt you if you let them.” She knew that was true. “You beat the men who attacked you. You can certainly beat these wimps.”

She smiled at that, then looked at him sadly. “No one else knows, Max. I don’t want them to, not yet.” His nod was reassurance of his silence. “Being a nobody has its advantages. I just need to get through the hearing, and then I can get strong enough to deal with that.”

His admiration was limitless as he said, “You are without a doubt the strongest, the finest, most compassionate, most admirable,” she was smiling by this point, “most worthy human being I’ve ever met in my life. You are like an arrow, swift and true in flight. Nothing can stop you now. Nothing. And it has been my great, humble honor to have been the bow.”

Her eyes glistened with love as he took her hand and kissed it. She treasured the gesture, but at the sight of a white man lowering his head to kiss her hand, something dissolved in Elizabeth, something she would never be able to put into words, but something she knew had been holding her back her entire life. And she knew from that moment on she would never be the same.

When she emerged from her office, she found everyone looking at her guardedly. A few people moved quickly to hide their copies of the poster. She shook her head. This was quite enough of this. “All right, everyone, relax. It’s just their last-ditch effort to derail us. Yeah, it made me mad. And yeah, I know I can’t do anything about it. And I _don’t_ want anyone running around trying to find out who did this. Am I making myself clear on this?” Everyone nodded dutifully. “Good. Alice, call Judge Murphy’s office and see if you can get me an appointment this morning.” Alice picked up the phone and started dialing.

Elizabeth organized groups of volunteers to go around the city and remove the flyers in an orderly fashion, and when she was done, Alice told her she had an appointment with the judge in half an hour. Before she could take even one step towards her office, she had Quinn, Arturo, and two of her usual young bodyguards demanding to go along. It was more trouble to argue than accept, so she agreed and they were off.

The four men sat idly in the hallway outside Judge Murphy’s offices for nearly half an hour before Elizabeth emerged. As they stood, Arturo asked simply, “Well?”

She shrugged as she joined them. “What I thought. She can’t do anything about it, but she commiserated.” She headed down the hall, and the others fell in step around her. She said thoughtfully, “She’s not what you would expect, being from a slave-owning family and such. I haven’t got her figured out at all.”

They passed through the main corridors and headed down the back way to the parking lot. As they neared the exit, they saw Mr. Fortunatus coming up the hallway towards them. He stopped and stepped aside with a small smirk to let Elizabeth and her entourage pass, but as she moved past him, he muttered, “What happened before could happen again.”

Before anyone had a chance to react, Arturo spun and with one hand caught the young man by the throat, slamming him hard against the marble wall. His hand pushed against the young man’s neck just below his jaw, cutting off some of his air. The others reacted with alarm, but when Quinn and Elizabeth both tried to get Arturo’s attention, his focus never left the Whitelaw lawyer. The fire in his eyes was belied by a frightening calm in his voice. “Mr. Fortunatus, you are an extremely arrogant and stupid young man. Your comment reveals that you know the truth, and that means you know who produced the flyer.”

Locked up by his own terror, Fortunatus mumbled with as much dignity as he could muster, “Let me go or I’ll sue.”

Arturo leaned in with unnerving calm. “My fine young fellow, do you understand how easily I could break your neck? One little snap, right there.” With his free hand, he touched the side of the young man’s neck near his third vertebra. “Just there. One little twist of my wrist, and, if you were unfortunate enough to survive, you would spend the rest of your life lying in a bed, breathing through a tube.”

Quinn was becoming genuinely scared. “Professor....”

Arturo didn’t hear him. “And, as you spent the rest of your life staring at the ceiling and wondering when they’re going to change your bed pan, you would have ample time to consider whether or not your little comment had been worth it.”

The squirming lawyer fumed, “You’re going to spend the rest of your life in jail.”

Arturo squinted at him. “Young man, since I arrived in your fair state two months ago, one of my friends was kidnapped and forced into slavery, another was lynched, a couple days ago another one was shot, and now you—a supposed practitioner of the law of this state—have threatened this woman with something so despicable I can’t even put it into words. Let me say it simply for you, Mr. Fortunatus: You—can’t—scare—me.” He punctuated each of the last four words with a slight squeeze of the man’s throat. He eyed the side of Fortunatus’s neck again. “Yes, just there.” He gave the lawyer’s neck the slightest of twists, and Fortunatus gasped. Arturo let his glare linger on the young man for another few moments to underline his point, and then he took a step back and released his neck. “Now go away. And never speak to us, or of us, ever again.” Fortunatus inched away against the wall, then stumbled and broke into a run down the hall, disappearing around the corner in a clatter of echoing footfalls.

The others stared at Arturo and started breathing again. He let out an enthusiastic sigh and patted his solar plexus with satisfaction. “I feel much better now.” He turned and walked out through the exit as the others shared looks of dismay and relief.

By the end of the day, all of the posters were removed by Freedom League volunteers. No mention of them was made in the media, and no law enforcement officials showed up to take Arturo away for assault. There might have been some victory for the OAC in the smear campaign, but at least it wasn’t a public one. And, even after being on the receiving end of a blazing lecture from Elizabeth on keeping his temper, Arturo was the most contented he’d been in weeks. The entire nasty incident was allowed to slide into the past.

On Thursday afternoon, Elizabeth summoned the three Sliders into her office. “I want you to be very familiar with what’s going to happen in court tomorrow. All of you have an important role to play.

“Basically, what’s going to happen is Rembrandt will be brought in just before 10:00, and he and I will sit at the plaintiff’s table. You’ll be in the public seats behind us. The session will commence, the judge will ask for statements. These are summations of the parties’ positions, not a lot of details. She’s already got the details. And then she’ll retire to chambers to consider the statements, and then she’ll return and issue a preliminary decision, basically on whether or not Rembrandt should be released pending an investigation into his abduction.”

Quinn asked, “Can all that happen before 2:02?”

“It can,” she replied. “This is just a preliminary hearing, it’s not a trial. We could be out of there by 11:00 a.m.”

Wade asked with concern, “What if it’s 11:00 a.m. and we’re finished and the judge doesn’t free him? Will they take him back to Merced and we’re stuck?”

She nodded reluctantly. “It’s possible. But I can ask the judge for what’s called a ‘sympathetic engagement.’ Usually it’s so family members of someone who’s just been convicted can have a chance to say goodbye before the person’s shipped off to prison. But under these circumstances, even though you’re not family, I think the judge would be under some pressure to grant it to us.” She shrugged slightly. “If that doesn’t work...how good is Rembrandt at faking a grand mal seizure?”

Quinn rolled his eyes. “If he can’t, I could do one easy.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “Okay. If the judge doesn’t go for it, y’all gotta go straight into grand mals. All of you.”

Arturo frowned distantly. “How about a petit mal?”

“Nope,” she replied, “they gotta be grand.” She patted his hand tenderly. “And yours has to be the grandest of all.” Her smile finally coaxed a small smile from him. “Now, aside from seizures, I need from you some basic but very important things. Of course, you need to wear your best clothes. TV cameras will be in the courtroom. And no matter what happens, don’t cry, or shout, or even try to get Rembrandt’s attention. If I’m lucky, I’m going to get fifteen minutes with him before the hearing, and I’m going to tell him not to look at you, at least not while he’s at the table. All eyes are going to be on you, and on him, and anything any of you do will be used against us if it’s at all possible. So, no passing notes, no fidgeting, no pickin’ your nose. I want you to be models of decorum.” They nodded. “Okay. That’s pretty much it. Be at the courthouse by 9:00 just in case there’s a crowd. I expect there will be. The whole world’ll be watching what we do in that courtroom tomorrow.”

It was nearly 8:00 p.m. when Elizabeth finally left her office and found Arturo sitting at the table in the parish house’s library reading the newspaper for the fourth time. She sat next to him and sighed with a weary smile. As he folded up the paper, he said, “You look all in.”

“I’m about as tired as a person can be and not be unconscious.” She looked around the room, which was lit only by the reading light next to Arturo. “As I was coming in here, I was thinking about something that happened, oh, I think about five years ago. I was sitting in my office, finishing up the papers for a property case I’d just completed. And then, with no knock, the office door just opened and in walked three people I’d never seen before.” She was gazing absently at the library’s door as she told the story. “I asked them if I could help them, and the man who was obviously the leader of the group....” She smiled at the memory, then cocked her head towards Arturo with an impish glimmer in her eye, “...Tall, handsome, obviously a man of great intelligence, said,” she intoned his words sonorously, imitating Arturo’s voice, “‘I don’t know if there is any help for us, but someone over at Smith, Kitto and Freed recommended you as a last resort.’”

Arturo smiled tenderly at the memory. “That was a fast five years.”

“Wasn’t it, though?” She gazed at the darkness beyond the reach of the reading lamp, looking at nothing in particular. “And I was thinking about that woman, sitting there at my desk, and I realized I haven’t seen her in a long time.” He put his hand on hers on the table. “She was a good woman, with simple, small dreams. A quiet law practice, an odd assortment of friends, a predictable life.” She looked at the door again. “And as I was about to open the door, I realized something really very scary.” She looked at him. “I don’t miss her.” He squeezed her hand, and they sat in silence for a long moment as they regarded each other. “I don’t know how it happened. How did I become someone else?”

“You didn’t. You became who you really are.”

Her eyes glistened, and she slipped easily into his embrace. She wondered how she was ever going to survive without his strength to back her up. “I know how hard these last two weeks have been for you. I watched you suffer, and it broke my heart because I couldn’t do anything about it. And I’ve thought a lot about how much you want to stay, and how much I want you to stay. And I thought something really evil. I thought about all the ways to delay the hearing, just a little bit, so we’d still get Rembrandt out, but it would be too late for you to go. Or the others could go, but somehow I’d ‘accidentally’ keep you behind.” She looked at him earnestly. “But if I did that, if I kept you here, in this place where you don’t belong, there would be no difference between me and James Whitelaw, and I could never live with that.” He appreciated her all over again. “Do you have a saying back home about ‘If you love something, set it free’?”

“Yes. It always sounded like so much nonsense to me. Until now.” He kissed her. They stood together, and she turned off the reading light as they headed for the door.


	15. Chapter 15

Rembrandt lay in his bunk but couldn’t sleep. Lights out had been an hour ago, but he kept staring at the ceiling and wondering what was going on. He knew it was Thursday the 29th. He was supposed to be in court in San Francisco first thing in the morning. What was he still doing here? Had something happened and the jokers here were keeping it from him?

A half hour later, guards got him up and led him away. He could see the other men watching him, but no one dared say a word. By this point everyone knew he was going to court, and the excitement on his behalf had been tempered by a fear of retribution from the overseers. All eyes were on him as he was escorted down the walkway between the bunks. He could feel their hopes, their need for him to be free when they could not. He could also see the faces of those who didn’t understand why he was doing this, why he was fighting. Job’s eyes held more betrayal than encouragement. Well, so be it. He couldn’t do anything about it if some people had given up already. He was still fighting for them, even though they didn’t know it.

As he approached the door, he knew he had to do something. It would annoy the guards no end, and if things didn’t work out and he came back, he knew there would be hell to pay. But he’d be paying it anyway, so he might as well earn it. When they got to the door, he stopped and turned back to face the others. Before the guards could react, he said, “If I don’t come back, I wanted to tell y’all that it’s been my honor to have known you. Never give up hope.” He turned and left. The guards were scowling at him, but he didn’t care. He listened for some sound from the barracks, but there was none. Of course, they couldn’t react out loud. Everyone would be punished. But he didn’t need to hear them. He knew.

Rembrandt was taken to the showers, and when he emerged, he was astonished to see his clothes—his real clothes—waiting for him. They were cleaned and pressed, but the jacket looked a little threadbare around the cuffs. The clothes looked like they’d been worn by someone else while he was inside. Big surprise. It was good to have them back, though, and to have his hair longer again and combed the way he liked it. As he looked in the mirror, he almost looked like his old self again. Almost.

He was taken to a waiting sedan and put in the backseat between two large men with large shotguns. Like he was going to try to escape at this point! The sedan, with another in front and another behind, headed for the road to the front gate. Man, he even had his own motorcade. This was almost like the old days. Except that he could get shot at any moment. The cars slowed when they approached the gates, and when they passed through, Rembrandt breathed a sigh of relief. He was still a prisoner, but he was _outside_.

The trip to San Francisco was long and annoying. When he tried to catch a nap, the guards started talking to him. He couldn’t believe it—they were _chatting_ with him. He’d perk up, and the talk would die down. Then when he’d try to hunker down again for some shut-eye, the conversation started again. They weren’t saying anything; they were just trying to keep him awake. These jokers were about as subtle as a brick. They wanted him to be up for the whole trip so he’d arrive exhausted and looking bad. But these clowns didn’t know who they were dealing with. No one kept the Crying Man from getting his rest on the road. Years ago, during his touring days, he’d perfected the trick of nodding and offering the occasional “uh-huh” while sound asleep. He folded his arms, offered a heartfelt “uh-huh” to some useless remark about the weather and blissfully dozed off.

Rembrandt drifted awake as he heard himself say, “Yeah” while the car stopped. He opened his eyes and looked around. It was just after dawn, and they were in San Francisco. He dutifully yawned and lied, “Oh, man, I really wanted to get some sleep. I can’t believe we’re here already.” The guards looked satisfied at their job well done, and he tried his best to look tired and haggard as he complained some more about not being able to sleep.

The three cars drove around for a while, and Rembrandt began to realize they were wandering. Hhm, they were stalling for some reason. He didn’t know why, and at this point he didn’t care. The guard in the front passenger seat looked back at Rembrandt. “Are you sure you want to go through this?” His tone indicated this was part of an earlier conversation he’d slept through. “I mean, you can choose another lawyer.”

Rembrandt didn’t want to give away that he had no idea what the man was talking about. “Well, it’s too late now.”

The guard shook his head. “I sure wouldn’t want her representing me.”

This sounded ominous. “Well,” he said guardedly, “you know how it is.”

The man shrugged. “Yeah, but you get what you pay for.” He smirked, and the others chuckled.

Rembrandt really didn’t like the sound of this.

The guard continued, “I mean, I don’t care how good a hooker she was. That doesn’t make her any kind of lawyer in my book. Especially if you’re working for free.” Rembrandt tried to hide his surprise.

The guard to Rembrandt’s left said, “Well, maybe she picked up a few pointers all those times she was in court on the wrong end of the plea bargain.” The men around Rembrandt laughed as he frowned.

The guard in the front seat looked at him earnestly again. “You sure, now? I mean, we can call this off and get you another lawyer.”

The man to Rembrandt’s right shook his head. “Hey, maybe he wants to take a chance on her. After all, she does have a long history of getting her clients off.” The men roared with laughter.

Before Rembrandt could get his wits about him, the circuitous route finally ended at the back of a large stone building, and when the car doors opened, he realized this must be the place. Guns at the ready, the guards hustled him into the building. Bailiffs joined them and led the way down the back corridors. Deep in troubled thought, Rembrandt followed the bailiffs to a holding cell where he saw some orange clothing folded on a bench. The head bailiff said, “Take your clothes off and put that on.” Rembrandt picked it up and saw it was a prisoner’s jumpsuit. He also saw no one leaving to give him a little privacy, so he sighed and changed while they all watched.

Once he was in the jumpsuit, another bailiff appeared holding several lengths of chains. He let parts of the chains drop to reveal this was a full set of shackles for wrists and ankles. Rembrandt looked at the bailiff in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The bailiff frowned. “If you don’t put them on, it’ll be considered resisting the officers.”

Rembrandt sighed, then held out his hands and submitted to being shackled. He’d had hopes this was almost over. But he was very wrong.

Arturo and Elizabeth were already in the courtroom when Wade and Quinn arrived at 9:00. Wade was in a borrowed dress that didn’t quite fit her but was close enough, and Quinn was in one of the loaned suits. He looked good except for his endless, unconscious fidgeting with his tie and the collar of his shirt. It was his first time in public without a turtleneck since the lynching, and he was surprised at how naked he felt. Wade had assured him a dozen times that his neck was only a little red now, and, unless people knew what had happened to him, no one would give it a second thought. But he still fidgeted and adjusted his tie every few minutes, and it was all Wade could do not to slap his hands down.

Elizabeth was standing at the plaintiff’s table, going over her papers, while Arturo was sitting in one of the chairs directly behind her. He greeted his friends as they joined him. Elizabeth gave Quinn an approving onceover. “You clean up pretty good.” He smiled with a touch of embarrassment.

Wade marveled and thought the same about Elizabeth. She was almost a different woman from the one they’d sought out for help all those weeks ago. She was still dressed simply, wearing a modest suit, earrings and only a bit of mascara, but now the small-practice lawyer had been replaced by a warrior. And not just a warrior, a champion. Maybe it was only her “court face,” but Wade suspected it was more than that. If someone had asked her to describe it, she would have said it was as if she’d emerged from some sort of cocoon. Wade _knew_ Elizabeth was going to win. She asked her, “Have you seen Remmy yet?”

She shook her head. “The Whitelaw people are really dragging their feet. They’re going to wring this out for every last ounce they can get. But they have to allow me at least a few minutes with him before they bring him in here.” She looked at the back of the courtroom, where news crews were setting up their cameras. “I sure hope this doesn’t turn into a circus.” She looked at the three. “Are you ready to go straight from here, just in case?”

Wade nodded. “I’ve got our traveling clothes in a bag in a locker outside. I’ll bring it in if this continues after lunch.”

Elizabeth nodded approvingly. “Rembrandt’s probably going to be in irons—they’ll be playing to them,” she said, indicating the cameras. “Are you prepared for that?”

The men nodded, and Wade said confidently, “Not a problem.”

Elizabeth regarded them with a playful smile. “Is there nothing you people can’t do?”

Quinn shrugged. “I can’t tap dance.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath. “That’ll be my job up here.”

They all turned as the courtroom doors opened and the fleet of Whitelaw Land Company lawyers and their support staff arrived. Moving like a caravan of self-assurance, they strode up the aisle and took their places to the left of the defendant’s table and the first row of the audience chairs. They only acknowledged their adversaries when Elizabeth asked them, “Is my client here yet?”

The man who had been the official spokesman in the pre-hearing meeting gave her an apologetic shrug. “Car trouble. He won’t be long, I’m sure.”

Elizabeth wasn’t impressed. “And of course he couldn’t ride with any of you.” No one responded as they went about their business of setting up.

The opposing lawyers ignored each other as they continued their preparations, but Quinn couldn’t stay still. As Wade sat next to Arturo, Quinn moved through the swinging gate and stood next to Elizabeth. He hesitated next to her, silently asking for permission, and even though she didn’t approve, with the slightest of nods she acquiesced. He went over to the other table as the lawyers took papers out of their briefcases. He nodded at the one member of the group he’d met. “How you doing, Mr. Fortunatus?” The young man frowned as he didn’t quite make eye contact with Quinn. “I haven’t had a chance to meet the rest of you yet. My name is Quinn Mallory. I’m the guy your people lynched.”

A ripple of shock passed through the support staff, but after only a bristle, the lawyers were the picture of calm as they continued with their briefcases. The spokesman said, “An unfortunate bit of reckless endangerment.”

The lawyer’s deflection didn’t phase Quinn as he indicated Wade. “And that’s Wade Welles. She’s the one your people shot.” He watched them as they didn’t respond. “No hard feelings, of course. They were just doing their job. Trying to kill anyone or anything that got in their way.” He lingered long enough to give them all piercing looks, which of course they ignored, and then he returned to his seat next to Wade.

She rolled her eyes. “What a diplomat.”

A few of the Whitelaw lawyers exchanged surreptitious glances, and then the one who had been the “designated retaliator” during the pre-hearing meeting stood and came over to the defense table, facing Elizabeth. “Since your young friend has so eloquently taken off the gloves, let’s speak frankly between ourselves for a few moments. You can’t win. You know that. The power of history is behind us. The force of society will keep things as they are. People don’t care about one negro. If they did, none of us would be here. There would be laws to protect you and your kind. But there aren’t, because no one cares. They don’t want to see you free. They want things to stay as they’ve been for nearly four hundred years. And all of your efforts will be met with such a powerful backlash from the population as a whole, you’ll regret that you ever tried to change things. I’m genuinely afraid for you, and the bitter harvest you’ll reap.” He returned to his colleagues and sat down.

The three Sliders watched Elizabeth as she coolly set down her papers and faced the assemblage of the best legal minds on the West Coast. Arturo knew this was a make or break moment for her, the time when she would prove to herself that she could do it or she would stumble and lose her way.

She regarded the men with a stern, proud gaze. “On the contrary. We’re here because all of us care very much about one negro. The magnitude of your efforts to delay us, to derail us, to frighten us, and even to harm us, speaks more about how much you care than any denial could ever contradict. And I assure you, I am not afraid of any ‘bitter harvest’ you have in mind for me. You can never hurt me. You can threaten me, you can burn down my office, you can slash my tires, you can attack me publicly in the press or call me names from behind the cover of bogus organizations,” she eyed Fortunatus pointedly, “you can have ‘what happened before’ happen again....” He looked away. “You can even kill me. But you cannot hurt me. And you cannot stop what has begun. Because if you cut me down, ten will rise in my place. The tide of history is turning, in this room and out in the world, even as we speak. The force of progress, which you have held back for so long, can now no longer be denied. The end of slavery has begun. And there is nothing you can do—nothing—to stop it now.” Her stern gaze traveled down the row of lawyers, and then she went back to her papers.

The electricity of the moment hung in the air, and then a few of the Whitelaw lawyers shifted uncomfortably as Wade blew out a quiet “Wow.”

A bailiff appeared. “Miss Speas, your client is here. He’s in Room Three.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and left. She turned to the Whitelaw team. “You’ll please excuse me, gentlemen. It looks as if they got that car started after all.” She gave them a deep nod, then picked up some papers and followed the bailiff.

Rembrandt was looking forlornly at his shackles when the door to the small conference room he’d suddenly been ushered into opened and in walked a striking black woman holding some papers. She smiled at him pleasantly and extended her hand. “Mr. Brown, I’m your lawyer, Elizabeth Speas. It’s nice to have a chance to meet you, finally.”

He shook her hand as best he could with his chains and regarded her cautiously as she sat down at the small table opposite him. “Yeah.”

Her smile at him was familiar, confident. “May I call you Rembrandt? I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like I know you.”

“Sure, why not?” He watched her sort through the papers. “...Are you a public defender?”

She frowned at him. “A what?”

“Uh, paid by the state to defend people who can’t afford lawyers.”

“No. I was hired by your friends. We don’t have public defenders here. I wish we did. Sounds like a good idea.” She said quickly, “Okay, we’ve only got a few minutes, so let me give you a quick rundown of what’s going to happen. This is a hearing, not a trial. There will be no witnesses, no cross-examinations. There’s no jury. You won’t have to do anything except sit at the table with me. The Whitelaw lawyers are going to talk to the judge, and then I am. They’ll try to convince her that the company owns you legally, and I’ll try to convince her they don’t. She’ll rule either to let you go or to send you back with the Whitelaw people, either temporarily while things get worked out, or permanently. If she rules against us, I can very probably arrange a meeting so you and the others can get together. If absolutely worse comes to worse, I can keep talking until 2:02, and when Quinn opens that thing, you gotta be ready to jump, chains and all.”

He stared at her. Was it time to slide already? He’d been away for so long, he’d lost track of the days. ...And not only that...she knew. “You know about sliding?”

She nodded. “It took me a while to believe them.”

“What convinced you?”

She eyed him knowingly. “After hearing a white woman sing ‘Angels Watching Over Me,’ I was ready to believe anything.”

He smiled. He missed hearing Wade sing. He missed all of them. “Are they out there?”

“Yes. They’ll be sitting right behind us. Which brings up something very important. There are TV cameras in there, and a lot of reporters from all over the country. We have got to be on our absolute best behavior. I don’t want you turning around and talking to your friends. No laughing, no crying, no joking around, no sass. Be absolutely obedient to the bailiffs and the judge and all the officers of the court. During this hearing, you and I will be representing millions of people who can’t speak for themselves. The white people of America will judge every colored person, free and slave, based on what we do. I can’t overemphasize the importance of this hearing and what we do in it. Even if the judge rules against us, we can gain a moral victory here by showing the world that we’re not what they say we are.” She gave him a confident smile. “I know you’re up to it.”

He watched her glance at her wristwatch, then at the door. She wasn’t at all what he had been expecting. She was competent, bright, focused. It was those Whitelaw creeps, lying to him again, messing with his mind one last time. He dismissed the last of his doubts.

She said, “They’re giving us more time than I thought.” She looked at him with concern. “How are you? How they been treating you?”

“I’m okay, now. They had me in solitary a lot. They thought I was some kind of outside agitator or spy or something.”

“Yeah, I wanted to ask you about that. What did you do in there? They were really afraid of you.”

He had no idea how to answer her. Despite what Grace had said about him, it wasn’t as if he’d done anything special, or heroic, or even on purpose. “I don’t know. I guess I just acted like a free man.” She smiled at him with admiration. But that brought up an important question. “I heard somebody got lynched.”

She was surprised. “You heard about that in there?”

“We heard a few things. And I saw the police come and take some of the employees away.” He didn’t want to know the answer, but he had to ask. “...Was it Quinn?”

She gestured reassuringly, “He’s fine. He was rescued. From the looks of it, he won’t even have a scar.”

“No brain damage?”

She smiled slightly. “Not that I can tell.”

Rembrandt was greatly relieved. “Man, I mean, that boy’s got brains to spare, but still....”

She looked at him significantly. “Since you heard about the lynching...do you have any idea what’s been going on since you were taken?”

“A little, but news inside was pretty scarce.”

She gave him a quick recap of the Freedom League, the ribbon campaign, the rally and the struggle against the OAC backlash. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing and laughed lightly. “They did all that, for me?”

“All that and more.” She regarded him. “Rembrandt, you’re the Dred Scott of the 20th Century. But even bigger, because this time I think we can really do it. Even if we lose the case, there will be no going back to the way things were.”

After a knock on the door, a bailiff appeared. “It’s time.”

Elizabeth nodded and stood up. “I’ll go out now, and they’ll bring you out just before the judge comes in.” She nodded encouragingly. “Remember—be strong.” With a last, confident smile, she left.


	16. Chapter 16

When Elizabeth returned to the courtroom, the public seats were filled and the place was buzzing with electricity. Filling the row alongside the Sliders were the inner circle from the Freedom League, and Elizabeth could see quite a few familiar, friendly faces scattered around the room. She was grateful for the support, even if she couldn’t acknowledge it. She went to her chair and turned to face her three anxious clients. Before anyone could ask, she said, “He’s fine, he looks good, his spirits are good. He’s in a prisoner’s jumpsuit and full shackles, so don’t be shocked when you see him like that. I told him not to talk to you or get all emotional, so if he seems a little subdued, that’s my doing. He’s fine.”

Wade asked, “Have they been treating him okay?”

“He said he’s been in solitary a lot.”

Quinn shook his head. “I bet he hated that.”

“It was probably safer for him in the long run. Fewer ‘deliberate accidents’ happen in solitary. Oh, I forgot to tell you. The Whitelaw lawyers are going first. In civil cases it’s up to the judge to decide, and usually the lawyers agree on an order. They wanted to go first, and I didn’t object. I’m a little suspicious, but mostly because I just don’t trust ‘em on general principles.” She looked at them with a hopeful, encouraging gaze. “Y’all gonna make it?” They all agreed they probably would. “All right. Just be strong and be good. ...And the signal for going into the grand mal seizures is I drop my pencil.” She got smiles out of them on that.

Twenty minutes went by as the lawyers went over their last-minute decisions. The energy level in the room built with each passing minute, and just when Wade knew she couldn’t take it anymore and was going to jump up and scream, the bailiff’s door opened and two guards came through, escorting Rembrandt. The three stopped breathing for a moment while the hum of energy in the room doubled as everyone focused on him.

But he was only looking for the other three Sliders. When Rembrandt saw them, his eyes locked on them. God, there they were, looking so worried, staring at him just as hard as he was staring at them. He wanted to talk to them, tell them he was all right, even just shout their names. But as he trudged in his full shackles to the chair next to Elizabeth, so close to them he could reach out and touch them, he couldn’t speak. With a last look at them as he sat, he turned his back and could only feel their presence behind him, feel how much they wanted to talk to him, to climb over the railing and hug him. God, he loved those people. He’d missed them so much. And Quinn had nearly gotten himself killed on his account. They were true friends. He’d never had such good friends in his life.

Rembrandt could see a television camera off to his left, focusing on him and the red light on. This was the moment Elizabeth had warned him about, the moment when all eyes would be on him and he’d be the face of every slave. But seeing his friends again, and seeing them so worried, had undermined his resolve. His emotions started to get the better of him, and he lowered his head and clenched his eyes shut as tight as he could. He wasn’t going to cry, he was _not_ going to cry. But deep breaths began to escape him, and it was all he could do not to let them turn into sobs.

Elizabeth produced a ready handkerchief and handed it to him. She patted his back as he held the handkerchief to his eyes and gathered himself. “It’s okay. You’re only human. You’re doing fine.”

He was distracted along with everyone else as the bailiff announced the arrival of the judge. He looked up to see a girl who looked not much older than a teenager come into the room and head for the bench. He stood along with everyone else and stared at her. She was just a kid! And she was going to decide his fate? Oh, hell.

Judge Murphy asked everyone to be seated, and after the rustling of movement, the room fell into an expectant silence. “In the case of Arturo, et. al., vs. the Whitelaw Land Company...,” she looked at the lawyers at both tables, “all parties are present. Counsel for the defendant have asked to go first, and counsel for the plaintiffs has no objection, so, gentlemen, please.” She gestured for them to begin.

The elegantly-dressed man who had been the “official spokesman” during the pre-hearing meeting adjusted his papers one last time, then stood. “Your honor, we motion that this lawsuit be dismissed on the grounds of lack of legal precedent and complete lack of jurisdiction. The plaintiffs have no juridical standing to sue the Whitelaw Land Company. Slavery is legal.”

Elizabeth stood. “Your honor, the case before us is not about the legality of slavery. It is about a free man who was illegally seized on a public street and forced into slavery. And there is legal precedent.”

The Whitelaw lawyer countered, “Your honor, despite her claims, I am certain counsel will attempt to do her best to turn this around into a discussion of the legality of slavery, as she has done so very publicly elsewhere. And this is not the appropriate forum to try to overturn nearly 400 years of American law and custom.”

The judge nodded thoughtfully. “Your concerns are noted, counselor. However, I believe that while in other venues Miss Speas may have opened that particular door, she has the good sense not to walk through it here. Motion denied. You’ll please begin your arguments.”

Elizabeth sat as Rembrandt whispered to her, “Was that normal?”

She nodded. “Very. We’re fine.”

The Whitelaw attorney consulted his papers one last time, then stepped from behind the table. “Your honor, for nearly 153 years, the Whitelaw Land Company has been a well-respected name in Central and Northern California. It’s a producer of some of the finest produce and beef in the West, and....” The lawyer continued, painting a picture of a fine, upstanding, and thoroughly reputable company.

Wade quickly became bored with the litany of good things about their adversaries, and she tuned out the lawyer’s drone as she concentrated on Rembrandt. Watching him from behind, she thought his hair looked shorter, and even in that oversized orange jumpsuit he looked like he’d lost weight. Well, slavery couldn’t be conducive to his health. But he seemed okay. There was something off, though. Of course. It was his silence. Rembrandt was a talker, and when he wasn’t talking, half the time he was singing to himself. But here he was the picture of silence. It was entirely unnatural for him. Under the circumstances, it was for the best. And either way it was so incredibly good seeing him again. She thought about the last time she’d seen him, frustrated about not pulling his own weight, and it seemed like it had been at least ten years ago. She wished she could travel back in time to that night and lock him in the bathroom or something so he couldn’t go out and fall victim to one conglomerate’s insatiable greed. She looked at the shackles around his ankles and sighed. It wasn’t fair. Here was the sweetest, gentlest man on this or any other Earth, trussed up like some serial killer. The only thing he was guilty of was being the wrong color in this nightmarish world. It just wasn’t fair.

As she thought about traveling back in time, her mind wandered to Quinn. He’d been so sullen since the shooting, so withdrawn from her. She should have handled that night in the hospital differently. She should have insisted that he see her home. If she could have gotten him alone, she could have kept talking to him until she could get it through his thick skull that it wasn’t his fault. After that, maybe they could have resumed that good night kiss. She sighed lightly, catching it halfway through so the others wouldn’t hear her. She wondered where that kiss might have led. She could tell he’d been planning it for a while. That brought a smile to her lips, but it faded when she realized that the moment was lost, probably forever. If only she’d had the presence of mind to follow through at the hospital. But she hadn’t, and now he was withdrawing from her, again. Oh, well. Maybe it was just as well to start the vortex amnesia early while there were other things to worry about. No, no more dwelling on the “if onlys.” That chapter was closed now.

Quinn looked at Rembrandt for a while, thinking that he looked remarkably good after everything he’d been through, and then he watched Wade as she looked at Rembrandt. He thought about how she had looked at him when he had come to her at the Joneses’ after the lynching. He thought about how she’d looked just before she fainted when she saw his neck. He remembered how she’d gazed at him with such admiration when he’d been up on stage at the rally. His mind wandered, and he thought about the night they’d spent together, when pretty much the only thing between them was Remmy’s T-shirt. And her stubborn strength of will.

He closed his eyes. How different would things be at this moment if he’d argued more convincingly, or if he’d kissed her one more time, or done any of a hundred other variables? But would they really be any different? She was right, of course, when she said being anything other than friends was so risky while they were sliding. He remembered the fallout from the last time they’d crossed that line, on Meteor World. Everyone had gotten tortured for a couple of weeks, and finally Wade had nearly gotten killed on that crazy Sodom and Gomorrah World.

He remembered a few other things from that Earth, things he would just as soon have forgotten. Like the way she’d been around his double. He knew something had happened between them, he was sure of it. And whose fault was that? His, of course. He’d really screwed things up between them after Meteor World, and now he was probably going to pay for that for the rest of his life. At least the rest of his sliding life. But he’d been so scared at how strongly he felt about her! She’d gone from being his best bud to a whole lot more in so short a time, he’d gotten confused and needed some time to think about what had happened. And then she’d turned around and had a fling with one of his doubles—someone she’d known for all of twenty-four hours—and apparently she’d gotten him out of her system, because that had pretty much been the end of that. Until this world. But because of what he’d done last time, she didn’t trust him anymore. And he had to admit he really couldn’t blame her. He was bad luck for her. It was better for everyone if he simply let whatever they could have had stay behind when they slid off this Earth. It would hurt, but he knew it was the right thing. And he was sure it was what she wanted. He sighed and tried to tune back in to what the Whitelaw lawyer was saying.

Arturo listened to the lawyer go on and on about basically nothing, and he frowned. He had no patience for all of this legal gobbledygook. Life would be so much better all the way around if the law were more like science. The law would profit highly from a little empiricism. There were quite a few instances where it was glaringly obvious that what was right was right and what was wrong was wrong. In science, all the maneuvering and finagling in the world couldn’t change whether or not an experiment had worked. Arguing until you were blue in the face wouldn’t change the outcome of an equation. Of course, the meaning of a collection of facts was often open to interpretation. However, the fact that a lawyer could, through the mere force of words, try to make the abomination of slavery seem acceptable was reprehensible to him.

His gaze drifted to Elizabeth. Of course, she would use that very same tactic of force of words to try to undo what this lawyer, and the way of life he represented, had so firmly established. How she had the patience for this, he didn’t understand. She had to sit there and listen to this man say in essence that she and every black person in the world wasn’t his equal, and that the imprisonment and dehumanization of a select group of his fellow human beings was exactly how things should be. His frown deepened. It was an abomination. Every single one of those lawyers should be forced to suffer through what they were so willing to make others suffer.

His attention was pulled away from the lawyer’s speech as he realized Mr. Fortunatus was looking at him. The young man was scowling at him, his anger and disapproval coursing out of his eyes. Well, damn the idiot. If he didn’t like being treated the way he was happy to see others treated, the problem was his. Fortunatus continued to glare at him, obviously going for an unspoken threat of retaliation for his humiliation in the hallway. His face was construed into such a weaselish shape that Arturo couldn’t stomach looking at the whelp. Well, two could play at the psychological warfare game. Ever so slowly, Arturo reached up and scratched his chin under his ear, then as he looked at the lawyer, he slowly trailed the finger back across his neck until it lingered pointedly on the third vertebra. Fortunatus shivered and looked away, and it was all Arturo could do to contain his laugh of triumph.

Wade had seen the exchange, and she frowned at the Professor. She whispered, “What was that about?” Arturo replied with a questioning gaze of the utmost innocence.

Quinn shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

She frowned at Quinn. “Why do you always say that to me?”

“Do you really want to know about the Professor slapping that guy around in a public hallway and threatening to break his neck?”

Wade’s lips parted in astonishment as she looked at Arturo for confirmation. He protested, “I slammed his head against the wall and choked him. There was no slapping involved.”

All three of them noticed Elizabeth’s hand slip off the table and reach down behind her chair, waving at them in a small, firm gesture before returning to the table. It was their high sign to keep quiet, and they obeyed.

Arturo looked over at Fortunatus, just to make sure his point had been made, but the young lawyer’s attention was fixed on this colleague and his presentation.

The Whitelaw attorney continued with his comments, bringing up point after point about the company’s excellent reputation and high standing in all of the California communities in which it had a corporate presence. Arturo noticed Elizabeth check her watch a few times, and he thought he saw her sigh once or twice. Hadn’t she said that the whole point of the presentations was simply as a supplement to the papers each side had already presented to the judge two weeks earlier? What was taking so blasted long? He saw her check her watch again, and he checked his watch—his pocket watch—and saw that it was 11:10. The man had been droning on for more than an hour!

A few minutes later, he saw Elizabeth shudder, and she suddenly stood up. “Your honor,” she said, interrupting the man’s endless talk. All eyes were on her as she said, “I’d like to ask for a ten-minute conference with you and opposing counsel in your chambers.”

A murmur spread through the room as the Whitelaw team tried unsuccessfully to look entirely pleased. The judge’s gavel brought silence, and she looked at the Whitelaw lawyer before her. “Counselor?”

“Of course.”

The judge announced, “We’ll take a ten-minute recess.” She gaveled the session closed and the room erupted into a hundred different conversations.

As the bailiffs approached their table, Elizabeth said to Rembrandt, “Don’t worry, they’re just going to take you into the back for the recess. They’ll bring you back when the session resumes.” The bailiffs helped him out of his chair, and with a last look at his friends he disappeared through the door to the back rooms.

Arturo asked her, “What’s the matter?”

As she sorted her papers quickly, she said, “This shouldn’t be going on so long. They’re stalling. They must have figured out we’ve got a deadline.” Showing more concern than she intended, she departed with the Whitelaw team and headed through the door to the back.

Wade said, “I wonder how they figured it out? We’re the only ones who know.”

Arturo could have kicked himself. “I’m afraid it’s probably my fault. At the Clerk of Courts, I said something about a hearing time being too late. I imagine the clerk took great delight in relaying that to the Whitelaw lawyers.”

Quinn said, “What I’m worried about is why those guys looked so happy about her jumping in like that.”

Arturo replied with a hint of sarcasm, “They undoubtedly think she’s overwhelmed by their argument and wants to cut a deal.”

Wade was beginning to lose hope again. “Maybe she should.”

Eight very long minutes later, the door to the back opened again and the group of lawyers returned to the courtroom. The emotions they’d portrayed when they’d left were now reversed, as the Whitelaw team was annoyed while Elizabeth was trying hard not to look pleased. The bailiffs brought out Rembrandt, and the lawyer and client sat at the table together as Quinn leaned on the railing with an impatient, “Well?”

Before Elizabeth could answer, the judge was announced and everyone stood for her return to her chair. She resumed the session with, “Counsel for the defendant will please continue, in a more succinct fashion so as not to lose the indulgence of the court.”

The Whitelaw attorney acknowledged her with a simple, “Of course, your honor,” and then continued. He talked for another fifteen minutes, going on in abridged detail about how the Whitelaw Land Company did sometimes “retrieve” runaways in public areas, but it never stooped to kidnapping or any other illegal activity. When it became apparent that he did not intend to wrap up before lunch, Elizabeth shifted to stand and object, but the judge beat her to it, telling the attorney that while he may charge his client by the hour, no one else in the room could, so he should finish with all due speed. He acquiesced and concluded with an uncharacteristically simple and straightforward reiteration that the Whitelaw Land Company and its employees had violated no California statutes in the matter of Rembrandt Brown, and therefore this entire lawsuit was frivolous and should be dismissed immediately.

As he sat, Judge Murphy consulted the clock. “It’s 11:40. We’ll recess for lunch and resume at 2:00 p.m.”

Elizabeth was on her feet instantly. “Your honor, if it please the court, I’d like to request that we resume at 1:00.”

The Whitelaw lawyers looked at Elizabeth quizzically as the judge asked, “Your reasons?”

In a steady voice that masked her anxious urgency, she said, “My client, Mr. Brown, has been a prisoner of the Whitelaw Land Company and now the state judicial system for nearly six weeks. For a free man to sit in chains in a cell when he has done nothing to deserve this, and while some of us indulge in the luxury of a two-martini lunch, is a travesty of the first order. Justice delayed is justice denied, even for an hour.”

Several of the Whitelaw team made scoffing noises, while others shook their heads. The judge considered Elizabeth’s words, then, to everyone’s astonishment, said, “Request granted. We’ll reconvene at 1:00 p.m.”

Animated conversations filled the courtroom as everyone stood at the judge’s departure. The bailiffs took Rembrandt away, and Quinn gave him an encouraging, “Hang in there, Remmy” before he went through the door.

The public filed out, leaving only the two sides slowly packing up. The Sliders were exhausted, and their turn hadn’t even started yet. Wade asked Elizabeth quietly, “How do you think it’s going?”

“Judge Murphy’s being incredibly agreeable. I’m getting nervous.”

That wasn’t what any of them wanted to hear, and their foreboding increased when one of the younger Whitelaw attorneys came past the table as he headed down the aisle. “Care to join us for lunch?” he said brightly. “The first martini’s on me.” He flashed a smile as the other members of the team laughed and followed him.

Elizabeth muttered so only her friends could hear, “It’ll be all over you if you sass me again.” They waited for the Whitelaw armada to pass from the room before they got up.

The four found a refuge from the press and the commotion in an empty hearing room, where they lunched on hot dogs from a curbside stand. Elizabeth had no stomach for food, but the others forced her to take at least a few bites. She was a million miles away through most of the lunch break, and no one knew what to say. Wade finally cracked the ice when she held up her soda cup to Quinn. “Quinn, if you don’t mind, I’d like another martini.” They all chuckled at that, Elizabeth most of all.

Now that she was back among them, Quinn asked her, “I don’t want to jinx anything for you...but what are you going to say in there?”

“All the great _pro bono_ minds who’ve been offering their wisdom for the last two weeks are of two opinions. One side wants me to go for the jugular of the slavery issue and let Rembrandt be a martyr since he’s pretty much lost anyway, and the other side wants me to throw Rembrandt on the mercy of the court and plead that he was from out of state and didn’t know the rules, ‘please take pity on a po’, simple colored man.’ Neither group thinks we have a chance of winning.”

Wade asked, “What are you really going to do?”

Elizabeth’s eyes glittered with that confident spark they knew well. “I’m going to put the one turn....” She looked at Arturo inquisitively.

“Spin,” he corrected.

She nodded. “The one spin on all this that no one else has ever tried.” Her eyes widened in an expression of being overwhelmed that they also knew well. “Lord help me, I’m going to try, anyway.”

Wade asked in a subdued voice, “You said they thought he was pretty much lost. ...Is he?”

“Well, they don’t know about your secret escape route. Unless they chain him to the floor, as long as I can keep talking until 2:02, no, he’s not.”

Quinn asked, “So, that’s your plan, to keep talking until we slide?”

She thought for a few moments, then said, “We’ll see how it goes.”

Wade asked, “What if the judge rules against us? Are you going to go for a deal and try to buy him back?”

She hadn’t wanted to admit this, but now that Wade had put it into so many words, she had no choice. “If the ruling is against us, Rembrandt’s ransom price will quadruple. At least. For all I know, they know how much we’ve got in the bank, and they’ll ask for that and a thousand more, just to strip my savings account.” She looked at them solemnly. “I will do whatever it takes to free him, and by 2:02. If the court case, if the Freedom League—if my entire life—fall apart, we can rebuild them. But I will not have on my conscience keeping you here where you don’t belong.” Arturo reacted thoughtfully to that, and Elizabeth checked her watch. “It’s time to go back.” They all stood, and Elizabeth regarded Wade and Quinn. “Go on ahead.” The two looked at Arturo, then gathered up the lunch trash and left the room.

Arturo thought this moment alone was for a last-minute pep talk and ego boost, but when he reached out to give her an embrace, she surprised him by stopping him. “No. I have to tell you something. Because I know what you’re thinking. If this goes until 2:02 and I’m not done talking yet, you are going to _have_ to go. If you stay behind, you’ll be held responsible for Rembrandt’s escape, and they’ll throw the book at you. You’ll be looking at some serious prison time, and I won’t be able to get you out of it, because I’ll probably be disbarred.”

“If you’re going to be disbarred, we can’t ask you to take the risk.”

She shook her head. “If all of you suddenly disappear, I know I’m going to look just as astonished as everyone else. There’ll be no proof I knew ahead of time what you were going to do, and even if doubts linger, I know I can talk my way out of that. But if they go and you stay behind, it’ll look like a plan, and I’ll look like an accomplice, and we’ll both be ruined. So, do you hear me? If it goes to 2:02, you have to go with them.”

He knew she was right, as much as he hated the cold, hard reality of it. In the sudden somberness of the moment, he took her hand in both of his and kissed it. “Then I’ll tell you now, in case I can’t tell you later...no matter where I go, or how far I am from you, I shall always, always, love you.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she slipped her trembling hand from his grasp. “Why are you telling me that? I can’t go in there with runny mascara.” She picked up her purse, but she was too late as a dark tear escaped and left a track down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away and found a tissue to blot the streak away. “I wish someone would please tell me how I’m supposed to keep going without you.” She opened her compact, but she didn’t see her reflection in the mirror as she fought a teary chuckle. “I can’t even think of her name. Pygmalion’s statue. All I can think of is Eliza Doolittle.”

He smiled. “Galatea.”

She nodded as she checked the damage to her makeup. “They got to stay together.” She closed the compact. “When you leave, what’s going to stop me from turning back into a statue?”

He took her in his arms. “I’m no Pygmalion, and you were never a statue. Always remember, I am the bow, and you are the arrow. Once the arrow leaves the bow behind, it never needs it again, and it never looks back.”

Two more tears escaped, but she didn’t care as she kissed him, and then kissed him again urgently. She stepped back from his embrace and regained her composure as she wiped her cheeks. She thought for a moment, then reached under her collar and pulled out a gold chain. On the end of the chain dangled a delicate M in a circle. “Better than any four-leaf clover.” He smiled at it as she tucked it back out of sight. “Go on. I need to repair my face. I’ll be out in a minute.” He nodded, and after a last kiss he left the room.

She had her mascara back where it belonged and was closing up her purse when there was a knock on the door, and then it opened. To her surprise, it was one of the Whitelaw attorneys. “May I come in?” She nodded, and he stepped into the room and closed the door. Elizabeth knew his name—John Burns—and she knew his reputation as a fair and honest sort. She also knew that of the Whitelaw legal wolf pack, he was the designated peacemaker. He approached, but he kept a respectful distance. “May I speak with you for a few minutes?” Ever cautious, she gestured for him to go ahead. “Before I speak officially, I’d like to say personally that I’m very favorably impressed with the amazing skill and dedication you’ve put into your effort. You’ve taken this much further than I ever thought anyone could.”

She nodded, waiting for the punch she knew was coming. “And your official speech?”

“Miss Speas—may I call you Elizabeth?”

It was a simple request, meant honorably, she was sure. But about all she had left now was her dignity. She said simply, “No.”

He reacted thoughtfully, apparently understanding her point and not taking it personally. “You’ve made a good run of it. An excellent run of it. But we both know what’s going to happen. There is no way you can win. Sandy’s a good girl, and she’s a fine lawyer. But she’s no judge. She lacks the _gravitas_ to get elected in her own right when her father’s term is done. She’s not going to rock the boat. She’s proven that with every case she’s heard. And she’s certainly not going to rule against the interests of her own family.”

Although Elizabeth tried hard not to show it, he was voicing her own thoughts with unnerving clarity.

He said in a low, resigned voice, “And speaking lawyer to lawyer, we both know what’s going to happen to your client when you lose. He’ll be taken back to Merced, he’ll be put to work in the fields, and, in a couple of months, when everyone’s forgotten about him, there will be an unfortunate industrial accident, and he’ll be dead.” He was speaking calmly, with no air of a threat, just the acknowledgment of how things happened in the real world. “Have you told your other clients?”

She shook her head.

“I gathered as much. They wouldn’t have turned down the ransom deal if they’d known.” He paused, showing a hint of distaste at what he had been instructed to say. “We’re willing to offer you a deal. ...A trade.”

She frowned. “A trade?”

His distaste was growing more obvious, but he said the words anyway. “...You for him.” She was so stunned by his words, she couldn’t speak. “The company will free him if...you turn yourself over.”

Part of her couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She’d heard of cases of people selling themselves so their families could have the money, but those were day laborers, blue collar tradesmen...not lawyers. The purpose of the deal was clear. With one stroke, the Whitelaw Land Company would break the Freedom League and gain ownership of the country’s most famous opponent of slavery. It was simple, direct, and brilliantly twisted. It was classic OAC.

“Of course,” he continued, “you’ll still be able to practice law. You’ll just practice for us, not against us.”

She finally found her voice. “Why on earth do you think I’d be willing to do that?”

“Because otherwise he’s going to die. And they know you could never live with his death on your conscience, when you had it in your power to save him.”

He was right, of course. “I don’t suppose the ransom deal is still open.”

Burns shook his head. “I’m afraid we’re all way past the point of no return on that. Let’s face it, you cost the Whitelaw Land Company a great deal of time, money, and bad publicity. The only ransom price they’re willing to accept at this late date is you.” He shifted uncomfortably. “Now, there’s no need to make a big deal about this. All you have to do in the courtroom or afterwards is look at me and nod. It’ll be done. They’ll release Brown immediately. And I know you’re a woman of your word. You’d be given time to get your affairs in order before you’d report to the Whitelaw corporate offices. The whole thing can be handled very quietly, and very discreetly. And you can make the decision at any time.”

She thought about the secret escape route, and she really began to wonder if she could get away with rambling for an hour like the other Whitelaw attorney had. And even if she did, then what? The four would be gone, and it would have been obvious to any interested observer that she’d been stalling, and she’d go to prison, where the Whitelaw people could find some inmate who’d be willing to kill her for pocket money. An ignominious death in prison, and the disgrace and end of the Freedom League. She wondered if maybe she should escape with her clients at 2:02. No, she couldn’t do that. If she saved herself, the League would still be disgraced and forced to pay for her lack of planning. Could she live with becoming a Whitelaw slave? No. Despite Burns’s civil attitude, she knew the reality that lay behind the deal. Probably better than he did, she realized. She would become company property. They would do with her whatever they wanted. And she knew darned well they wouldn’t be retaining her as a lawyer; there was no way the Whitelaw Land Company would entrust a nigger woman to argue cases for them. They wanted her name on their roll of chattel. They wanted her out of the public eye for good. And she also knew the first order of business would be to make sure she understood who was boss. Mr. Fortunatus’s threat would become reality. And it would happen over and over again until either she was broken or she was dead.

What was it she had said to the Whitelaw team before the morning session? “You can never hurt me.” She’d meant it at the time, and believed it. But it was one thing to be strong before the battle with her supporting forces at her side; it was quite another to be strong when the battle was half-lost and the allies were no longer on the field. She knew these people could hurt her. Hurt her very deeply. More than she could bear. She was furious that they had outmaneuvered her so completely on this. But her fury quickly gave way to a dreadful, deadening acceptance.

...No. There was only one way out of this. Unless against all odds she won the case, she would agree to the trade, and then once the four travelers were safely on their way, she could...God forgive her...escape. Max would never know. He’d leave thinking she was carrying on the fight. And in a way she would be. She’d make sure the reason for her desperate actions would be publicized afterwards. The Whitelaw lawyers would deny the terms of the deal. But if the judge ruled against her, she could make it quite obvious that she was accepting a deal, and the magnitude of her sacrifice would be almost impossible for them to explain away. Not after everything else they’d done. That group of _pro bono_ lawyers was looking for a martyr for the movement. ...It looked like they were going to have a much higher profile one than they ever expected.

Burns was becoming increasingly uncomfortable the more she thought. “Well,” he said, “think about it. There’s still time. Just look me in the eye and nod. I’ll take it from there.” He nodded, then left her alone with her grim thoughts.


	17. Chapter 17

Arturo checked his watch again, and Quinn checked his. It was two minutes to 1:00, and there was no sign of Wade or Elizabeth. They shared exasperated sighs. When Wade finally came up the aisle, she was greatly annoyed. “Where have you been?” Arturo asked.

“I tried to bring in the bag of clothes from the locker, but the guards at the courtroom door took it. We may have to leave the clothes behind.”

Arturo commiserated, but said, “That’s the least of our worries. Elizabeth hasn’t come in, either. I’m afraid something is going on.”

Quinn looked at the bulging audience around them. Justice Howard was back in their row, but both Lester and Francine Meeks hadn’t returned from lunch. And at least a dozen other familiar faces from the Freedom League were now absent. “She’s not the only one who’s missing. This is almost a completely different crowd from this morning.”

Wade and Arturo looked around and saw that he was right. Howard saw them and acknowledged their concerned gazes with a shake of his head.

Quinn continued, “The OAC must’ve thought the audience was too friendly to the wrong side. I bet the call went out to all the OAC companies to send down employees to fill up the gallery. And I know I saw at least a couple of our people being held up by security. I’m sure they kept them out there until there were no more seats left and they couldn’t get in.” The three sighed. Didn’t the OAC miss a single trick?

The court officials were talking, obviously concerned that it was time to resume but Elizabeth and one of the Whitelaw attorneys weren’t back yet. And since Rembrandt couldn’t be brought out without his attorney in the room, a log jam was developing. The last Whitelaw attorney came up the aisle, and the three Sliders watched his colleagues give him questioning looks, as if they were asking how it had gone. This wasn’t sitting well with Arturo at all, and he was about to get up and go look for Elizabeth when the judge was announced and everyone had to rise for her entrance. She sat and regarded the empty plaintiff’s table with annoyance. “What’s going on?” She eyed Arturo severely.

He was about to make some sort of excuse when Elizabeth said from the back of the room, “I apologize, your honor. Opposing counsel and I had a conference that ran a little long.” She came up the aisle to her table and put on her reading glasses as she quickly set up her papers. “My client can be brought in. I’m ready.”

One of the Whitelaw team stood up at that. “Your honor, we request that her client not be brought into the courtroom for the remainder of the hearing.”

A bolt of fear shot through the Sliders and their lawyer. Judge Murphy asked, “Why not?”

“Well, first of all, his presence has never been required here and serves merely as publicity value for opposing counsel. But in addition to that, we believe he is a flight risk and should remain locked in a cell until this matter is resolved.”

There was a slight murmur from the audience, but the judge’s gavel brought silence. Elizabeth shot him a skeptical gaze. “A flight risk?”

The lawyer turned and faced Wade. “As we were about to begin the afternoon session, one of the plaintiffs, Miss Wade Welles, was stopped by guards attempting to bring into the courtroom a bag containing casual clothing for four people. Under the circumstances, we can only assume that this was part of some escape plan and these were getaway clothes.”

The Sliders tried not to react, but it was impossible to keep all of their anger hidden. No, apparently those OAC people really didn’t miss a trick.

Elizabeth looked at Wade over her reading glasses in a gesture that was more theatrical than judgmental. She turned to the judge. “Your honor, the idea of having more casual clothes handy for after the hearing was my idea. Regardless of the outcome of this hearing, it’s going to be a zoo out there afterwards. It made sense to fetch the spare clothes now rather than try to swim through the crowd after the hearing. And besides, I fail to see any sort of viable escape route here. I mean, where are they going to go?” She pointed at the door through which they hoped Rembrandt would soon emerge. “If they run through there, they’re heading straight into the cellblock. If they make a break for the back, they’ve got to run a gauntlet of about ten guards inside the room, and who knows how many more outside. I assure you, Mr. Brown is not a flight risk.”

Arturo frowned. Elizabeth’s words were solid enough, but she sounded distracted, as if she were on auto pilot as she spoke. Something had definitely happened to her. He didn’t know why, but he was genuinely afraid.

The judge looked at Wade, then Elizabeth. “I don’t like the implication of a bag of clothes being brought in here.” She looked at the Whitelaw attorney. “But the plaintiff’s counsel is correct. There’s no logical place for him to go. I’ll compromise. He can attend the session, but guards will be posted behind him. That’s probably a good idea on general principles at this point anyway.” She signaled to the bailiff by the door to the back, and he opened the door and signaled down the hall for Rembrandt to be brought out.

The compromise was devastating. With guards immediately behind Rembrandt, his odds of making it to the vortex in time had just plummeted. But as he was led out to the table, the three tried their best to keep their game faces in place.

Rembrandt knew his friends well enough to read that there was trouble, but since he couldn’t talk to them, he could only wonder. When the guards who brought him out stayed directly behind him as he sat, he began to understand the shape of the problem. This wasn’t good, this wasn’t good at all.

Judge Murphy watched Elizabeth glance over her paperwork distractedly. “Counselor, are you ready to present your argument?”

Elizabeth didn’t look up at her as she said, “Yes, your honor.” She took off her glasses, then set them down on the table. She paused next to Rembrandt, then put her hand on his. Without looking at Rembrandt, she said loudly enough for only him to hear, “Jesus, please give me Your strength so I may do this.” She stood straight, and, with a glance in the direction of the Whitelaw attorneys that saw none of them, she stepped from behind the table.

“Your honor, one of the attorneys for the defendant stated that I would try to turn this into a forum for discussion of the merits—I mean, the legality—of slavery.” She paused and tried to get her brain into the right gear.

Arturo’s heart was in his throat. On her first step out of the starting blocks, she had fallen on her face. One more stumble like that and the race would be over before it had begun. He held his breath.

Elizabeth looked at the judge, then turned to face the room full of people waiting for her next word. Her uncertain gaze traveled through the spectators, but she deliberately didn’t look at the three Sliders in the gallery as her eyes finally came to rest on Rembrandt. Here was this man whose life rested in her hands. No, that wasn’t true. He would survive this, one way or the other. She might not, but he would.

When Elizabeth realized that, a huge weight of guilt rose off her shoulders. No, this wasn’t about Rembrandt’s life. She suddenly understood that, and she realized that it had never been about him. It had always been about her. As she looked at his face, and she saw his trust in her, and his air of confidence she’d never seen in a colored person before, she finally saw the entire situation clearly, so clearly the glare almost hurt her eyes. God had sent these people to her, to test her, to forge her in the fire of the greatest trial of her life. This was her crucible. She would rise to the challenge God had given her, or she would die trying. It was just that simple.

Everyone watched her, waiting for her to emerge from her suspended animation. Judge Murphy said quietly, “Counselor?”

Her word broke the spell. Elizabeth gave Rembrandt a small, confident smile, then turned towards the table filled with Whitelaw lawyers. She found John Burns and shot him a steely gaze that gave him her answer more strongly than any words could have, and then she completed her turn and faced the judge.

Arturo had no idea what had happened between Elizabeth and that lawyer before they returned to the courtroom, but he knew she’d just thrown something back in his face. Thank God. She was back, and she was going to be all right.

Her voice rang out clear and strong as she said, “Their great fear is misdirected. I have no intention of debating the minor details of the Peculiar Institution and how my client Mr. Brown fits into it, or doesn’t, as the case may be. The preliminary paperwork I gave you clearly shows that Mr. Brown was kidnapped in a public place and forced against his will to become the property of the Whitelaw Land Company.” She turned towards the Whitelaw table. “There is no point in debating the cold, hard facts...no matter how diligently and circuitously opposing counsel may have done so.” There was a quiet chuckle from the corners of the room, which was mostly the domain of the news media, and a tap of Judge Murphy’s gavel quickly silenced it. She faced the judge again. “No, your honor. My intention here today is to make every man, woman, and child in this country rethink the entire concept of the United States of America.” There was another reaction from the audience, this one more ominous, and it too needed a gavel stroke from the judge to silence it.

“It is the purpose of the government of our country to support its citizens through laws designed to protect the rights of the individual. These laws are based on the principles set down in our country’s founding documents—the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights.” She turned and began to pace slowly before the judge’s desk, talking as much to the rest of the room as she was to the judge. “Succeeding generations interpreted these founding documents to suit the needs of the growing and maturing nation, and less than a hundred years after our birth in the War of Independence, we stood on the brink of another war, a terrible war that would have destroyed the country just as surely as the previous struggle had brought it to life.

“In our nation’s time of greatest need, a leader stepped forth who found a way to keep the peace and keep the nation alive. President Pennefield is revered second only to President Washington—one the Father of his Country, the other the Great Healer of the Nation.

“The dilemma of the nation was the struggle between the glorious words of freedom that our Founding Fathers wrote in the documents they gave us and the darker reality in which they lived. How could a man who owned slaves write that ‘all men are created equal’? Did we believe their words, or did we believe their deeds?

“John Pennefield resolved the dilemma by insisting that we read what our nation’s founders wrote in the context of their life and times, and that for us to interpret what they meant in a fashion other than how they themselves lived the words they wrote was for us to stray off the path the Founding Fathers had laid for us.

“Pennefield’s solution avoided the war that would have torn us asunder. But there was a price to be paid for preserving the nation. Pennefield worshipped the Founding Fathers with such a devotion that it was contagious, and today we view the men who created this nation as demigods, our secular saints. We no longer examine them, or ask the difficult questions that their lives beg be asked. And as a result, this blind worship, this—you’ll pardon the expression, ‘slavish’—devotion to the context that the words were written in rather than to the words themselves has caused this country to stultify and eventually atrophy. While the rest of the world is living in 1996, we are living in 1861.”

Elizabeth let a thoughtful murmur from the audience rise and fall before she continued. “And yet, while the country has been stuck for the last 135 years, the intelligence and sophistication of the citizens of America have continued to grow and blossom. And like a grown child who is forced to continue living in his parents’ house, and even as an adult must wear the same clothes from his childhood, and do the same chores for the same allowance, a great deal of stress has resulted.” There was a chuckle from the room, and the judge silenced it. “As we have grown and matured as a people, we have come to grate and to chafe at the difference between the words that established our country and the reality that defines it. And, for the last 135 years, those who have wanted to keep things stuck in the past have been trying to preserve the hypocrisy and to justify the lie.” A dark murmur rose from the spectators, and it took three strikes of the gavel to quell the disturbance.

Elizabeth continued, “This has not been easy to do. With the words off limits to all, those who sought the justification for how things have always been were forced to interpret...” she paused for the effect, “...the blank spots between the words.”

No one could see where she was going with this, and even the people who had been brought in to disapprove of her were listening intently.

Elizabeth was now talking directly to the spectators and the press, pacing back and forth in complete control of the moment. “And so, it became the policy of the land that what the Founding Fathers actually wrote wasn’t what they actually wrote. The reality that the status-quo seekers insisted be maintained was interjected between the words. So it is that ‘all men are created equal’”—she turned abruptly and pointed at Rembrandt as she said in a loud, forceful voice—“but not _those_ men.” She paced back before the Whitelaw table. “That all are endowed by their Creator with the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”—she turned again and pointed an accusing finger at Rembrandt—“but _they_ are not.” She paced to the center of the room before the judge’s bench. “‘We the people’—but not _those_ people.” Again, she gestured to Rembrandt to punctuate her remark, and again when she said, “A man is presumed innocent until proven guilty—but a _colored_ man is a slave unless he can _prove_ he’s free.” She let her gesture to Rembrandt linger as her words soaked in.

She stopped before the Whitelaw table and spoke to the audience over the heads of her adversaries. She held out her hands in a simple, palms-up gesture as if making a general statement, but because of her position, she was indicating the slave owner’s lawyers: “Their interpretations—their insertions of their own ideas into those blank spots—have turned the documents and the ideas that the Founding Fathers gave to us, in order to form a more perfect union, into a pack of shamefaced lies.” Another, more thoughtful, rumble came from the gallery as her words began to sink in.

Fortunatus was directly opposite her, and he shifted uncomfortably in the presence of her intensity. Taking a cue from Arturo, he tried a little non-verbal intimidation. He crossed his wrists on the table and clenched his fists; a reminder of her own impending captivity might derail her. But she had on the whole armor of God now, and he could no longer touch her. She leaned lightly on the Whitelaw table and said as she looked him in the eye, “And they are the ones who are forcing all of us to justify their lies and to become partners in making a mockery of the ideals that gave birth to this country.” Fortunatus shifted back in his chair and looked away.

She stepped back from the table and continued, “What worked 220 years ago, what worked 135 years ago, what worked even forty years ago, no longer works. We have grown and changed. The country has changed—the world has grown and changed. Think of the United States of America as a giant Gothic cathedral like they have in Europe. Those took hundreds of years, and many generations of workmen, to complete. The Founding Fathers laid the foundation for this cathedral—and here we are, all these years later, still trying to use the exact same part of the blueprints 220 feet in the air. And you don’t have to be a master architect to know if you’re still building foundation 200 feet in the air, your cathedral’s going to fall over.” There was a chuckle from the spectators.

Elizabeth now had the room in the palm of her hand, and Arturo watched her in wonder as she wove an analogy of Martin Luther and the country’s need for its own reformation. She was brilliant. He had never seen anything so masterful in his life. He marveled as he realized he was witnessing the birth of a hero of the age. Generations yet unborn would know what she had done and what she had started here. By God, someday her birthday might even be a national holiday! He could not have been more proud.

Elizabeth continued, “The lawyers for the Whitelaw Land Company have based their entire argument on the simple fact that there is no law in California that extends any sort of rights to a colored American citizen if he can’t prove he’s free. That is true. There is also no law in the state of California that defines which way is up, and that rivers should flow downstream. There are a great many truths in this world that are self-evident.” There was a mild chuckle that subsided before the judge reacted. “It is an unwritten law, they say, that coloreds are fair game. It is an unwritten law, they say, that coloreds are not protected by the laws that watch over all the other Americans and they have only those rights specifically given to them by the legislature. It is an unwritten law that what has been for the last 300 years must always be.

“This is the only country in the world that was created by an idea—the idea of freedom. That idea was given its shape by some of the most stirring words ever put on paper. With such a magnificent heritage, this country deserves better than to be ruled by people who love the blank spots more than they love the words. A nation so rich in ideals and legal precepts deserves better than to be governed by unwritten laws that are secretly enforced on dark street corners. America deserves its true inheritance from its Founding Fathers—not the hypocrisy, but their hopes and dreams, the truth that all men are created equal, that all of us are endowed by our Creator with the unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, that _we_ _are_ the people.

“It is time for this country to experience a new birth of freedom. It is time for us to let go of the self-imposed limitations that keep us living in the past, and to take our place among the nations of the future. It is time for us to come home to who we really are, and who we were always meant to be.” She faced Rembrandt. “And that journey home begins simply, effortlessly, with the release of this man.” She turned and faced the judge. “The only thing keeping him here are unwritten laws—and our own willingness to surrender to those words in the blank spots, those words that were never written.”

As Elizabeth turned to return to her chair, applause erupted from the gallery. The sound brought Arturo back from being lost in her speech into the reality of the moment. He saw that Quinn was applauding loudly, while Wade was applauding as she wiped away tears. He looked back at the room and saw that the applause was coming from throughout the room, with people in troubled silence sitting side-by-side with those giving Elizabeth an ovation. The judge’s gavel began to quell the outburst, and only then did Arturo notice that as Elizabeth sat, she was shaking. He could hear her saying over and over again, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. I meant to talk until 2:02. I’m so sorry....” Arturo looked at his watch. It wasn’t even 1:20 yet.

When the judge had finally silenced the room, she took a few moments of deliberate calmness to restore the dignity of the session. “Thank you, counselor.” She sat in thought for another few moments. “At this time, it’s usual for the judge to retire to chambers to weigh the arguments and how they support the evidence presented by both sides, and then return sometime later with a ruling. However, in this particular case, there is no need for a delay.”

She had spoken calmly, but her words drove a shot of fear down Wade’s spine. Judge Murphy regarded the Whitelaw lawyers, who looked pleased that this was going to come to a speedy conclusion. Wade latched onto Arturo’s and Quinn’s hands on either side of her and held on tight.

The judge continued, “The implications of this case are staggering. And rightly the entire nation—and the entire world—are watching what happens in this courtroom today. The issues here bring into question nearly 400 years of law and custom in this country. I am by nature a conservative person, and I am a particularly conservative jurist. While some on the bench indulge quite regularly, I do not consider it appropriate to legislate from within the judiciary. It is not our job to change the law, only to interpret and enforce it.”

Wade closed her eyes and lowered her head. She couldn’t bear to hear what was coming.

“Yes, in this country there is a great dichotomy between what we profess and what we do. You can no more legislate morality and conscience than you can legislate a river to flow upstream,” she said with a slight smile to Elizabeth. “The unresolved dilemma of slavery has hung over this nation since long before it even was a nation. But it has troubled not just the country as a whole—it has wrenched at the fabric of society, the integrity of families, and the heart and mind of every individual in this country...whether they were aware of it or not,” she said with a glance at the people at the Whitelaw table.

“As one American citizen, I feel that I alone do not have the right to decide in this forum whether or not slavery in this country is legal.” Quinn looked at the Whitelaw team, who to a person looked quite happy. “That is for the citizens in each individual state to decide. But as the daughter, granddaughter, and on through eight generations, of a family of slave owners, I feel I have a certain perspective on the issue. From watching my father and his peers, I’ve learned a very basic truth about humankind, that in order to hold a man down, you must stay down with him.” Wade opened her eyes and stared at Judge Murphy. “The terrible damage that slavery inflicts cuts both ways. And while I will not legislate from the bench, I will indulge my basic belief that we must heed the better angels of our nature. If we are able to be stronger and wiser than our sacred Founding Fathers, then it is our obligation to be so. To stand taller, to be more successful, to do more than our parents,” she glanced unconsciously at her Uncle Frank, “is showing them no disrespect. It’s showing them that we’ve learned the lessons that they’ve given to us, whether they intended those lessons or not, and, standing on their achievement, we can achieve more.

“It’s obvious that this man, Rembrandt Brown, was kidnapped and forced against his will into a life of slavery, and it is this court’s opinion that any unwritten law that impedes the rights of its citizens, as far as this state is concerned, is illegal and immoral. I hereby order that Mr. Rembrandt Brown be released from the possession of the Whitelaw Land Company immediately and returned to the freedom denied him. Court dismissed.”

The judge’s gavel stroke could not be heard as the courtroom exploded into pandemonium. The spectators were standing and roaring in approval and disbelief as the two legal teams sat stunned while Judge Murphy left the bench. And then, as one, the opponents were on their feet. The dazed bailiffs unlocked Rembrandt’s shackles as Wade and Quinn pushed against the railing, trying to reach him. The moment he was free, the two grabbed him in a hug that eventually pulled him over the railing into the clamoring crowd. The Whitelaw lawyers were trying to hide their shock, while a few of the staff members openly wept.

Hearing and seeing none of the commotion around them, Elizabeth and Arturo looked at each other in silence. History had just claimed her, but neither of them could begin to understand the shape of what had just happened and what was to come.


	18. Chapter 18

Elizabeth and Arturo spent the last half hour before the slide sitting alone on a hallway bench in a hidden recess of the courthouse. Quinn and Wade had taken Rembrandt to change back into his own clothes and meet the press waiting to hear from him. Elizabeth had kept at bay the reporters looking for her by promising to come to the press conference “at 2:05.” The three promised to find them at 2:00.

As they sat on the bench, they held hands and spoke little. He wanted to ask her to come with them, but he knew she could not. She wanted him to stay, but she knew he shouldn’t and he would do it if she asked. And so, they sat and dreaded every tick of the clock.

Finally, she squeezed his hand. “Judge Murphy made me promise not to tell you this, but I think it’s safe now.” She gave him a sly side glance. “When I went to see her about the flyer, she mentioned she really liked you.”

He gave her a disbelieving glance in return. “She hid it remarkably well.”

She smiled. “She said you were the first man she’d met who acted like it was the most normal thing in the world for a woman to be a judge.” He had to smile at that. “She loved it. She said it gave her hope for mankind. Truth be told, I think you swung the case.”

“Never. I have known more than a few Nobel Prize winners, but I have never, ever heard anything that comes close to the brilliance you displayed this afternoon. I’m not given to hyperbole....” She eyed him skeptically. He smiled lightly. “When it really matters. But when you spoke, I was in awe of you.”

She considered that for a few moments. “I’ve really come a long way, haven’t I?” Her eyes moistened. “When I think about it, all of my life has been ruled by fear. Fear of society, fear of the government, fear of overstepping my bounds. ...When what happened to me...what they did to me...I was so afraid. That’s what it’s really about, after all. Fear. Even when I thought I was being courageous—being a colored woman taking the bar in a slave state—I just did little things, property cases, estates, nothing where anyone would take notice of me.” She looked at him. “And then you showed up. You threw open the door and said, ‘What are you doing in here? Your life is out there.’” She gestured him holding a hand out to her and yanking her away. “And guess what? That must’ve burned it all off, because I’m not afraid anymore.” Overcome, he kissed her hand. “I’ve got places to go, and things to do, and people to see, and now I’m going to do them. The arrow knows no fear. It just flies.”

He was completely at a loss for words, but before he could muster something, they heard footfalls coming down the hall towards them, and he checked his watch. To his dismay, he saw it was a minute to 2:00. But at least there was one sign of returning normalcy—Rembrandt was complaining. “I can’t believe you people didn’t buy me back when you had the chance!”

Elizabeth and Arturo stood as the trio approached them. They were in their traveling clothes, and not only did Rembrandt sound like his old self again, he was looking it, too. Arturo assumed being the center of attention at the press conference had revived his spirits. Wade said to him tiredly, as if she’d said it ten times already, “Remmy, we’re sorry, okay? We thought you’d want us to make a point.”

“And what point was that? That I wasn’t worth it?”

The arguing was more habit than anything else, and it was oddly reassuring to know he had the steam for a little bellyaching. Quinn said to the couple, “Well, he’s still got it. Leslie Chase said the single best shot of the whole hearing was him crying.” Arturo had to smile at that.

Rembrandt shot Wade one last look of annoyance, but it was tempered with too much affection to have much effect. He gathered himself and shook Elizabeth’s hand. “I don’t know how to thank you. You saved my life.”

She smiled. “I think maybe I was just returning the favor.” They didn’t understand, but they could see that Arturo did.

Wade gave Quinn a significant nod, and he pulled something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Arturo. It was a mechanical stopwatch, but it had a small, jury-rigged sound attachment. “It was Wade’s idea.”

Wade said, “But Quinn made it.”

Arturo regarded it. “And it is...?”

Quinn answered, “A stop watch that’ll count down sixty seconds. And when it gets to ten seconds, it’ll start ringing. ...It’s amazing how fast sixty seconds can go by if you’re not paying attention.”

Wade added, “And we wanted to make sure that if you don’t come with us, it’s by choice, not by miscalculation.”

Arturo could not have felt more love for his friends at that moment if they had been his own flesh and blood. “Thank you.”

Quinn turned to Elizabeth. “We’ll say our goodbyes now, so we can get out of the way in a hurry when the time comes.”

Rembrandt went to her first. “Thanks for everything. I wish I could’ve gotten to know you. They told me some of what you did. It’s amazing.”

She accepted his hug. “Someone who inspires such loyalty from friends deserves the best. It was my pleasure.”

Wade was next and gave her a heartfelt hug. “Thanks for everything. And good luck. I know you’re going to be great. This world’s never going to be the same.” Elizabeth laughed at that.

Quinn was last. “Thanks for everything you did. We owe you—I owe you—so much. I’m really honored to have known you.”

She blinked back a tear. She looked at the timer as he pulled it out of his jacket pocket. “You fix that thing so you can come back and check up on me someday. See how I’m doing.”

He smiled. “Count on it.”

As Quinn kept his eyes on the timer as the last thirty seconds clicked away, Wade looked at the Professor. She was afraid this was the last time she’d ever see him. She gave him a hug and tried to hide her tears.

He was touched by her gesture and chuckled. “There, there, no need for goodbyes. I’ll see you on the other end. Just be sure to get out of the way so I don’t squash you.” That got a laugh out of her as she brushed her tears aside.

Quinn watched the timer, then let out a held breath. “Okay, people. It’s time.” He pointed the timer down the hall, and Arturo held the stopwatch next to it. Quinn pushed the button as Arturo started the stopwatch. The vortex emerged with a roar, and Arturo slipped the stopwatch into the precarious perch of his jacket’s outer breast pocket. Elizabeth took a step back and stared in wonder at the swirl of light and energy. In rapid succession, Rembrandt, Wade, and Quinn leapt into the portal and disappeared.

Elizabeth and Arturo turned to each other, and his firm British resolve vanished as he began to cry. She smiled and put a hand on his arm. “What you doin’?”

“Well, one of us had to, and you need to keep your mascara straight for the press.” He made a valiant effort to gather himself and failed. “I can’t do it, I can’t. I can’t leave you.”

“You have to, Max. Part of you will always be here,” she said, placing her hand over her heart. “But the rest of you has to jump into that thing.”

“Why? Tell me why.”

“Because I have to know that someday you’re going to get home. And God gave us different assignments. You’ve got other worlds to explore. I’ve got to fix this one.”

“How very presumptuous of you to speak for God.”

“Hey, He and I have been talking _a lot_ the last couple weeks.” She took him in her arms and kissed him, and, without being obvious, turned him so his back was to the vortex. She took his hands. “Now go on, Max. I’ll be fine. ...You’ve seen to that.”

The stopwatch sticking out of Arturo’s pocket began a gentle chime. His grip on her hands tightened. “I promise you, if there is any way possible, I will come back.”

“I’ll leave the light on for you.” She guided him back a small step towards the vortex behind him. “Now let go. Let go and fly like an arrow.”

Another half-step back, and the pull of the vortex claimed him. His hands were yanked out of hers as he disappeared. An instant later, the vortex swallowed itself and vanished.

The stopwatch with its sweet chime clattered to the floor at her feet. Numbly, she picked it up. She clicked the button, and the watch stopped. The last chime echoed off the walls, leaving silence in its wake.

Elizabeth stood alone in the corridor, stunned by the sudden stillness. The sudden solitude. She looked at the empty hallway where a moment ago he had been standing. He was gone. He really was gone. She’d been trying to prepare herself for this moment for weeks, knowing in her heart that she was doing the right thing, but now that it was here and he was gone, she wasn’t ready for it at all. A sharp breath caught her by surprise. Another one followed, and she turned away and put her hand over her heart.

Alice came down the hall and found her. “There you are. The press is going nuts out there. You ready?”

Elizabeth fought another sharp breath, then nodded.

Alice gave her an encouraging smile, then looked around. “Where is everyone?”

Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder at the empty corridor as she took a tissue from the cuff of her sleeve and blotted out any trace of mistiness. “They had to go.”

“They comin’ back?”

She smiled to herself. “Someday.”

Alice noticed the odd-looking stopwatch in Elizabeth’s hands and regarded it with a curious frown.

Elizabeth smiled softly, then held it out to her assistant. “Hold onto that for me, will you?”

Alice accepted the device and put it in her purse. “Well, come on, girl. We got work to do. _Everybody_ wants to talk to you.”

Elizabeth tucked the tissue back into her sleeve. “Good. ‘Cuz I got a few things to say.” She didn’t look back as she headed down the hall towards the world waiting to be changed.

***


End file.
